All Who Dwell Within Your Gates
by Incendiarist
Summary: Miri decides it's time to finally introduce her girlfriend to her family. What could possibly go wrong? It's not like said girlfriend is a Necromancer from a Usually CE race or anything. Or like Miri's changed her alignment since meeting her. And really, Nath's only sautéed a Paladin once. Butter is hard to find on the road, so she usually has to grill them instead. [Femslash Feb.]


Co-written with Shrrgnien. References to YAFGC, Order of the Stick, Discworld, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Supernatural, Dr Who, and Elementary (I wanted to be able to claim having written Superwholock. My priorities are fantastic).

The setting is more 3.5 than anything else, but is not a perfect match. Some of the lore is different, particularly regarding the drow, who are Outsiders rather than Tel-quessir. Underdark society is in some ways different from that in canon, because really if it works how it does in canon it_ doesn't_ work. The timeline portrayed is 1284 - 1357 in the Dale Reckoning, putting it a good while before the Silence of Lolth, which does happen in this setting (if with considerable change in details), and just before the Time of Troubles, which also happens. While Common is the _lingua franca_ of Faerûn, PCs do not automatically speak it fluently. A friend would like to emphasise that there is some alternate character interpretation going on with Drizzt. He likes Drizzt. We don't. It shows.

PLEASE NOTE: this story contains depictions of and/or references to abuse of authority, alcohol abuse, cannibalism, child abuse (INCLUDING THE RITUALISED PHYSICAL AND SEXUAL ASSAULT OF A VERY YOUNG CHILD), consensual bodily cohabitation, consensual sex between an adult and a minor, cultural imperialism, dehumanising language/misgendering, domestic abuse, drowning, dubious consent/seduction, eating things not meant to be eaten, elements of a fictional religion bearing certain satanic imagery, extremely dubious morality, fantastic racism/xenophobia, gendered language, harassment, incest, lack of autonomy, lack of disclosure of minor status prior to sex, molestation, murder, mutually destructive relationships, possession, post-traumatic stress disorder, psychic violence/mind rape, rape trauma syndrome, self-destructive behaviour, self harm, sexual assault, slavery, stalking, sororocide, swearing, torture, victim blaming, and violence.

That said, it's really mostly fluff.

* * *

**Dusk on the second day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Thatcher House in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

_Knock knock knock._

Miri fidgets, adjusting her clothes and brushing her hair compulsively out of her face. Beside her is a figure, cloaked and cowled. It might be intimidating, except that it barely comes to her shoulder and is holding a large cooking pan.

"You remember what I told you earlier?" she asks the figure, picking at a stray thread on her sleeve.

A sigh. "No killing, no maiming, no threatening, and no racist comments, because we can't afford to make the wrong first impression."

Miri nods tersely. "It's not that I don't trust you, Nath, but I don't want to alienate her, and if she thinks you're dangerous..."

"If we plan to mislead her, then, maybe you could let me know how I _ought _to act?" Nath accidentally lets the stress leak into her voice.

Miri looks over, and her eyes soften. "Sorry," she says, taking Nath's free hand and dropping an apologetic kiss on her fingers. "I'm sure you'll be fine. She's not _unreasonable_, just... don't make her think you're going to kill me in my sleep, alright?"

"Why would she worry about _that_? I would never kill someone in their sleep. There's no honour in it."

"Perfect."

The worn wooden door opens smoothly and a perfectly ordinary, matronly-looking human woman, with graying hair and warm brown eyes, appears. An air of doom accompanies her.

Miri gulps.

"Hi, mum."

* * *

**Moondark on the fifth day of the second week of the Rotting in the Year of the Harp.  
** **A Disreputable Inn in Proskur of the Dragon Coast.**

_I really need to stop doing this._

Miri winces, flexing her fingers in an attempt to coax them into something vaguely resembling a hand. Somewhere, she thinks, there's bound to be a nice inn that pays its Bards generously, possibly with free food involved; where the patrons actually listen to the _music_, not just the dirty jokes, and don't stay up longer than the moon. The problem is, places like that generally prefer entertainment that doesn't center entirely around terrible puns and off-colour humour, and that's all she really has a name in. Not that she wouldn't prefer something with slightly more _class_, mind, but now that she's gotten a reputation as "that little half-elf gel who does all the bawdy songs in cheap taverns" it has proven annoyingly difficult to rid herself of.

Ah, well. At least she's learned how to handle the fleas.

She nudges her door open.

_Speaking of fleas..._

Miri props her lute carefully up against the wall and exchanges a mutually distrustful look with the mattress. She's learned to be slightly cynical about these things. While all in all this isn't a _terrible_ inn, mattresses are fickle; she's fairly certain she'd had one that was sentient last year.

She's debating whether to sleep on the floor when something moves that is (presumably) not the mattress. She pauses.

"I haven't been paid yet, if that's what you're after," she announces to nothing in particular as she edges her way towards the mattress of questionable sentience. She thought she _might_ have seen a reflection of eyes in the corner, but it's gone in the next second.

When whatever it is fails to respond, she slips her foot under the bed, snagging the strap of what could at a stretch be called a bag. Very, very slowly, she slides it out and reaches inside, wishing she'd at least thought to pack the knife on top.

A voice, probably connected to the eyes that Miri may or may not have actually seen (did they put something in the water here?) speaks in a rush of distinctly foreign syllables, sounds Miri isn't sure she could mimic even if they weren't at least a full octave below her own vocal range.

"...Sorry?"

Another polysyllabic run of sound, which she doesn't understand any more than the first time. "I'm afraid I don't..." Her fingers brush the hilt of–-no, wait, that's a tin of polish. She pulls it out anyway; it would probably hurt more than her fist, at any rate.

The voice, now apparently fed up, falls back on the tried-and-true ancient linguistic technique of _en-nun-ci-at-ing eve-ry-thing slow-ly,_ as though talking to the hard of hearing.

"Listen, I don't—" Exasperated, Miri thinks for a moment, decides that she's never heard the language in her life, and tries the closest thing she can think of. "What are you do here?" she demands in passable Goblin. You don't spend much time in seedy taverns without picking up at least a bit of the language, after all, and goblins could be surprisingly good tippers.

The voice doesn't respond for a moment, and when it does, Miri can hardly make it out; a quiet, and much less enunciated, "I was not aware this room was occupied. I am sorry. To please you, I might go."

Miri keeps a wary eye on on the corner, but relaxes slightly. "That's cherry pancake," she says, mangling a rather important pronunciation. "Why are you do here?" Having given up on finding her knife, she kicks the rucksack back under the bed and feels her way towards a nightstand, looking for a lamp or at least a candle.

"Did not want to be bothering to anyone."

Miri frowns slightly at that. "Well, I did leave the door unlocked, but—damn!" She sets down the candle she'd just managed to locate and pulls her bag back out, digging through the contents for her flint. As she rustles, she keeps up a carefully upbeat chatter. She's slipped back into Common in her nervousness, still half-expecting some sort of attack out of the darkness, but nothing happens. "I always pack it on top—no, it's gone again. Say, do you have a light by any—there it is!" There's a pause, a few failed attempts, and then the candle sputters to life.

A squeak from the now-somewhat-visible figure, a mass of dull blackish cloth in the shadows cast by the flame. Miri lifts the candle, trying to get a better look, and the figure cringes back from the light. Taking pity on the whoever-it-is, she lowers the candle and sets it behind the table. It casts enough dim light that she can see, but the little figure is shielded from the heart of the flame. "Hey," she offers hesitantly. "Are... are you a cherry pancake?"

"What?" The voice almost seems to hold back a giggle.

"Ah..." Miri stops, thinking, then makes a face. "I mean, are you _alright_? I am not to speak Goblin very good," she explains somewhat unnecessarily.

"I... I..." The voice pauses here, choosing its words carefully. "I am to be going to be fine, miss."

Not one to miss such an obvious bit of wordplay, Miri settles herself more comfortably onto the floor, blocking more of the light. "What's wrong?"

The figure peeks up over the edge of the cloth, just for a moment, another reflection from the eyes. It's small: if not a goblin, something often working with them, and with a light weakness. Svirfneblin, maybe; a deep gnome. "There is not anything wrong."

"Of course there are not." Sarcasm would be wasted in this situation, so Miri discards it in favor of a gently mocking indulgence. "You were hid in my room because you are be fond of cold, dust corners."

"I _am_ to be fond of them." The rebuttal is a petulant mutter; Miri's won this round.

She knows it, too. She tries to hide the smile as she reaches out to the huddled figure. "Here. Why do you hiding like so?"

The figure flinches away from her hand, attempts to edge further into the corner; a difficult task. "Am not to be hiding from anyone," it mutters.

Miri's eyebrows raise. "Did I to say a thing about an anyone?" Interpreting the silence correctly, she reaches out and places a hand, reassuringly gently, on the edge of the creature's cloak, noting its attempt to fuse itself into the wall to avoid her touch. "Did the anyone hurt you?" she asks, a protective instinct flaring up reflexively as the tiny thing cowers. Not waiting for an answer, she twitches the cloak away, and snatches her hand back immediately.

Eyes too big for an unsettlingly symmetrical face. Ears longer than even Miri's father's, generally thought of to be more than a bit oversized. Long hair in ringlet curls, hanging loosely. And the _palette_. The milk-white hair and the crow-black skin and the glow of monochromatic eyes a deep and terrifyingly reminiscent red. The creature clasps its hands to its ears, sliding up against the wall into the foetal position.

Recovering from the disconcerting moment of panic—something deep inside her is screaming _Danger!_ just at the sight of the poor thing—Miri scoots closer, peering at the strange little being. "Shut up, now," she murmurs gently. (She has, after all, learned her Goblin in taverns, and this is the closest she knows to "hush".) "Don't to afraid of me."

The mood shifts instantly with her words; the little creature sits straight up, and hisses, _"Nakhjuzak are never afraid."_

"You look to afraid," Miri points out, filing the unfamiliar Goblin term away to investigate later.

"I am... not to be a strong example." Miri gets the feeling that the strange little creature is averting its eyes, despite the fact that the flat color made it impossible to tell. She takes a minute to inspect the little creature, finally taking in its (her?) disheveled appearance, the way its eyes stay focused on the ground apart from that singular outburst, the death grip it keeps on its long ears.

She reaches out again and tries to gently pull a hand away. "You're hurt."

"Am not," says the creature, snatching its hand back, and then adds on, "Hurt," a second later, as though there were some few depths to which it refused to fall, and that of petulant four-year-old was one such.

Miri holds up both hands in the universal gesture for 'if you say so'. "You are to need help?"

The creature looks conflicted for a moment, begins to shake its head, but then stops. "Would... would you to be having a, a..." searching for a direct translation, giving up, "a strip of cloth? For to wear?"

Miri is briefly puzzled. "To wear like this...?" She draws a hand across her hips, miming a belt.

"For to wear as a covering." It makes a weird motion with its hands, still plastered to its ears, as though letting go would be nigh-apocalyptic.

"Ah... cherry—_alright_," Miri corrects herself. "I don't sure..." She pulls out her pack, struggling to shove most of the contents out of the way. "I do have—oh," she mutters in Common. "That's where the knife went… Here we go." She pulls out a rolled-up strip of gauzy red fabric and hands it to her corner lurker. "Is to dance with, really," she explains, "but covers, too, if you want."

The little creature makes a movement which is probably meant to be a nod, but is more of a bobbing motion, like a seated curtsy, and snatches it out of Miri's hands, pulling it back up to its ear.

The creature looks up at Miri, tense, and upon not getting the apparently hoped-for response, finally removes its hands from its ears, reluctantly. It unrolls the scarf, and, in a way that shows it's done this many thousands of times before, folds it over upon itself a single time, and ties it as though it were a headband, the ends uneven. The creature takes the long side and braids it into its hair while Miri looks on, fascinated. When it's done, its ears are covered by the fabric, holding them to the sides of its head. It doesn't seem to know what to do with its hands, now.

"Here." Miri takes one of the creature's hands and pulls her—it looks like a her, she decides—to her feet. "More good?"

The creature nods. "To thank you," she says, now not looking at the ground, but still avoiding eye contact. She's tiny, barely coming to Miri's shoulder, and wearing a tied-off robe—a Mage?

"No tab," Miri answers automatically, then shakes her head. "Ah... learned Goblin in bars," she confesses. "All is good, I meant. No trouble." She offers a small grin. "Sit," she says, feeling like a bad host despite the fact that her guest was not actually invited at any point. "What does your name be, small thing?" A small part of her brain notes that trying to use terms of endearment in a language you don't really speak rarely has the intended effect.

The creature sits on the corner of the bed, uncomfortably. "Nathcyrl," she says.

"Miria," she returns. "Why you were in my room, Nith..." She trails off as her tongue struggles over the pronunciation. Her face is a study. "Why you were in my room?" she says finally.

"Did not want to be bothering to anyone," repeats Nath-whatever, with a touch of a tone seeming to continue on with "you idiot".

"I see. I said wrong. Meant to say, why were you hiding?"

"I was not to be hiding. It was being too loud, and I was wanting to find quiet."

Miri decides not to dignify this with a response.

A pause, as Nath was presumably trying to come up with a halfway decent lie. "My travelling partner, he is to be very loud, when he is drunk. And very boisterous." A second's pause. "Why are you needing to know?"

Miri watches her for a few seconds, reading further into the explanation than might have been intended. "You are stay the night, if you want," she says softly. "No need to afraid."

Nath's eyes, in the way that eyes have, seem to darken, and there's a change in her voice. She's cold, more distant. "I am not afraid, not of no-one."

Miri gives her a doubtful look, but concedes, "Can stay anyway. Is to be... quiet." Fixing her with a tentative look, she adds softly, "Is not shame to be afraid."

Nath glares at her now, and Miri is definitely not imagining the play of quick, sparking light along her fingertips. "I," she says, her voice like ice, "am not being afraid, and not at all of _you_." The last is said like a curse, in such a way that only the technical wording keeps it from being the kind of slur over which wars are fought.

Miri, despite being at least a head taller than Nath, feels decidedly small in the face of the unexpected cold fury. She leans back slightly. "I... good?" she offers weakly. "Need not to be afraid of me. Am not to hurt you, anyway."

Nath doesn't move much at all, except for a bit of a loosening in her shoulders, and Miri notes to avoid making her angry in future. Her voice is only barely warmer when she says "And I would not to hurt you. Though you are very—" she searches for the word she is looking for, "—shiny."

Miri shifts, wanting suddenly to put a great deal more space between them but not wanting to be rude. "Shiny?" she echoes nervously, wishing she still had her polish tin.

"Did I to make an error?" Nath looks sincerely confused.

Miri takes a moment to think about her wording. "You are meaning... shiny?" she clarifies. "Shiny, like metal? Because for goblin, shiny is to also mean... expensive, like coin." Goblins placed great value on shiny things. She's not entirely certain whether being effectively called 'valuable' is reassuring.

Nath frowns. "No..." She reaches out to touch Miri, running a thin black finger down her jaw-line. "Shiny." Miri catches the hand carefully, guiding it away from her face while she tries to make sense of what Nath is saying. At some level, she almost dimly understands it, but when she tries to focus on the realisation it slips away.

Nath raises an eyebrow at this, but doesn't say anything. They sit there in silence for a few minutes, perhaps contemplating the secrets of the universe, until Nath speaks again. "Are... do you to find it shiny?" Miri looks at her, confused, and follows her gaze to the window.

"Yes," she says after a while. The only thing she can think of is that maybe Nath is talking about the moon."It is... shiny. Even when it is small." She flashes a smile at Nath. "Small things can be shiny also." She reaches out and tugs gently on the end of a curl.

Nath looks down at Miri's hand, where it rests on her hair, and then to Miri's face. She frowns almost imperceptibly, and then she moves, quickly, and her lips brush against Miri's.

* * *

**Dusk on the second day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Thatcher House in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

"I have to say, Miria, it's _good_ to see you again. You look like you haven't aged a day, I'll never get used to that... Tea?"

"Oh—er, yes, please, thank you," Miri stammers, half-standing. "For both of us, I think, here, let me..."

"No, no, you sit down, you must be tired," her mother says easily. "Where have you been this time?"

Miri exchanges a glance with the still-hooded Nath, sitting back down slowly. "Ah... well, I was up near Silverymoon for a while, I picked up a few trinkets for Carter. How old is he, now?"

"He just turned eleven last month."

"What, already?" Miri exclaims. "Just two years ago he was nine!"

Her mother turns and _looks_ at her until the statement sinks in.

"...Okay, yes, that's... usually how numbers work, I—you know what I meant!"

The woman laughs and flashes a grin that shows exactly where Miri got her smile from. "He'll be all over you when he hears you've been to Silverymoon," she warns her. "He's decided he's going to be an adventurer, and Drizzt Do'Urden is his hero."

A question comes from Nath, something sounding like "Drey-ist dower-day-in?", and it takes Miri a second to realise that she's correcting the pronunciation.

"Oh, is that how it's pronounced? I've never quite been able to get my tongue around elf names, I'm afraid," her mother says with a shrug. "You'll have to tell Carter when he comes in, he'll be fascinated. One sugar or two?"

"Just one" Miri says, then realises her mother is waiting expectantly on Nath's answer and hurriedly translates the question.

"Why would I take sugar in tea?" asks Nath, in one of those cultural faux pas that Miri doesn't notice anymore until they're in front of people.

Miri's mother blinks at the sincerity of the question, but rallies quickly. "Black it is then," she says, switching smoothly to Elven. "No cream, either, I take it?" Nath shakes her head, and she sets the cup down in front of her. "Miri, you haven't introduced me to your friend."

Miri picks up her tea and takes a long drag, drawing it out as long as is physically possible in an attempt to fortify herself. "Of course, I'm sorry. Mum, this is Nath. Nath, my mother."

Miri's mother holds out a hand, sitting down across from them. "Katerina Thatcher."

Nath bows her head—Miri isn't even sure she knows what handshakes are, but if she does, she must be avoiding them to hide the colour of her skin—and replies with a formality she generally lacks, and a stronger accent than usual, like she's translating from Drow rather than speaking in Elven: "I am Nathcyrl, of the House Auvryren. May the gods smile upon your household, madam; your daughter has spoken of you with great respect."

Katerina blinks, looking flustered. "Well, I... thank you very much. And... how do you know her, Niethchail?" The pronunciation is horrific, but at least it's an honest attempt.

Miri freezes, forcing herself with difficulty to swallow a sudden mouthful of tea. "Oh... adventuring party," she says vaguely. "Nath is our Mage. She's very good at what she does."

There's a pause, and a sort of strangled laugh from under the cowl. "Thank you, love."

Miri chokes on air, coughing violently in an attempt to draw attention away from her sudden blush. Katerina, in the irritating manner of mothers everywhere, is not fooled. She doesn't look disapproving, however, which is encouraging. On the contrary, the arch look she throws Miri is barely containing a smirk. "An 'adventuring party', hmm?"

"We _are_ with an adventuring party," Miri points out.

"Do you remember what you told me on your first visit home after you started travelling?"

"Oh, no. _Mother!"_

Katerina ignores her, tipping Nath a conspiratorial wink. "I asked her if she was enjoying it, and she said she was, though sleeping arrangements could be problematic in some of the less reputable inns—"

"Mother..."

"—and I asked her what her favorite part about it was, expecting, obviously, that she'd say something about sharing her music with the world, or all the wonderful experiences she was having—"

Miri drops her head into her hands in defeat.

"—and she looks up and says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, 'The mysterious adventurer types, of course!'"

Nath tilts her head, a seeming extension of a raised eyebrow from someone spending most of their time hooded, and asks, softly, "Mysterious adventurer types?"

"_No_," Miri says firmly. "Not like that, Nath, never. All I meant was... Oh, come on, you've seen them too: they come in, find a shadowy corner, wait for someone to come and snag them for a quest and toss a few coins to the Bard before they leave. They tip well. That's _all._" She sends a glare at her mother that's only barely joking. "And that was fifteen years ago!" She turns back to Nath, worry sketched on her face; finds the drow's hand under the table, and brings it softly to her lips.

"Shiny," she whispers, in Goblin, for Nath's ears alone. The tense grasp of the hand in hers slowly relaxes, and she smiles, dropping another quiet kiss onto her knuckles for good measure. She rubs an idle thumb over the back of Nath's hand until she sees a tentative smile form in return.

They let the moment stretch, but it has to end eventually. Miri reluctantly returns her attention to her mother, who's watching the scene with warm interest and... curiosity?

Miri follows her gaze to their clasped hands.

To Nath's exposed skin.

Too late, Nath snatches her hand back, retreating back into the folds of her long blue robe and hiding it behind her back. Katerina glances between them, taking in the look on Miri's face. "Miria," she says in a tone that brooks no argument, "What do I not know?"

Miri swallows and takes a deep breath. "I..." she glances at Nath and mutters a quick apology before switching back to Common. "All right. Let's try this again. I'd like you to meet Nath. She's an elf Mage, in a manner of—"

"_She?"_

"Yes," Miri says impatiently, "I already said... Oh. Right." Sometimes it's easy to forget that the elves don't use gendered pronouns. "Yes, mother, she. Nath's a she. Like I said, she's... it's just that she's... well, I mean... Not exactly... that is..."

"Miria..."

Miri squeaks.

There's a sigh from Nath, the sort of sound from someone who was really hoping to avoid this. A dark hand flits up, makes a quick, ritualised movement, like a religious ward, and she pulls back her hood.

Katerina recoils, and Miri feels a flash of protective anger before remembering her own initial reaction to that _particular _combination of blood-red eyes on a black field.

She gives her mother a few seconds to get past the initial fear. Sure enough, Katerina soon leans back in, looking both contrite and intrigued, and Miri's silent sigh of relief is tangible in the room.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Nath," Katerina says warmly, as if to make up for the first impression. "Here, if... if you don't mind my asking, obviously, I'm not familiar with—"

The door springs open in a noisy rush as a blonde, tousle-haired figure tumbles through it excitedly. "Nan!" it calls, waving around a short wooden sword. "Nan, you won't believe the fish we caught, it was _huge!"_

Katerina turns toward the boy, trying to hold back a smile. "Oh, it was, was it?"

"Definitely!" he exclaims. "It was so big it broke the line!"

"You don't say! Again?"

A broad-shouldered man with hair the exact same shade as his son's enters as well, laughing and closing the door behind him. Katerina turns on him. "And I suppose it was even bigger than the last one, was it?"

"At least twice as big," the man replies solemnly.

Katerina doesn't bother holding back her laugh at this. "Honestly, Donald," she says, exasperated. "If it gets much bigger the two of you will be fishing for _sharks._ Now be polite and say hello to your sister."

"Miri!" Noticing her for the first time, Don lights up when he sees Miri's grin. She scrambles out from behind the table and leaps at him, laughing delightedly when he picks her up almost off her feet. "It's been years, where have you been?"

"Oh, nowhere much," she replies airily, with a sidelong glance at an enthralled Carter. "Here and there, you know. Mostly forgettable places. Baldur's Gate, Jalanthar, Glimmerwood... Silverymoon..."

She's promptly tackled by a Carter-shaped battering ram. "You went to _Silverymoon_?" he cries ecstatically. "Did you meet any paladins? Did you play for the Chosen of Mystra? Ooh, did you see Drizzt Do'Urden while you were there? He's so _cool,_ someday me and James are going to go adventuring and we want to be just like him, do you know about him, you _must_, they're such great stories! And—"

Miri pries herself free of her nephew. "One at a time!" she laughs. "I met a paladin, but not in Silverymoon; I didn't get a chance to play much in the city because our adventuring party had to keep moving..." Don rolls his eyes at the way she places a slight emphasis on the words _adventuring party,_ and she smirks as Carter gasps wildly and opens his mouth to spew more questions. She cuts him off cleanly with "...and actually, we _did _meet Drizzt Do'Urden while we were there. I even got to talk to him." In a manner of speaking, she doesn't add.

* * *

**Afternoon on the fifth day of the third week of the Drawing Down in the Year of the Harp.  
** **An alarmingly nice tavern in Silverymoon.**

"And there you go," the barmaid says cheerfully. "Sorry 'bout the wait, we're understaffed today. Just let me know if you need anything else, alright?"

It's almost unnatural; Miri doesn't _get_ handed plates of hot food by smiling barmaids in clean, well-lit taverns. Logically she's aware that this is because they have in fact paid for it, but the easy smile is almost as unsettling as the lack of moldy bits on the bread.

"Uh… thank you," she stammers.

"No problem," the girl says.

Nath peers at the plate in front of her. "What is this?" she asks. Miri had ordered for her, not because she couldn't read the menus (they were bilingual and made of a heavy paper stock that cost about as much as Miri's lute strings did) but because there were menus at all.

"Turkey with mashed potatoes," says Miri. She'd figured that was the closest the tavern was likely to get to charred adventurer and a side of wild carrots.

"What are potatoes?" Nath asks uneasily. "Is it customary to mash them?"

"Sometimes," Miri informs her. Normally she would leave it at that, but she's happy and in a good clean tavern run by happy and well-fed people—the owner has a wife and three children, all of whom help him run the place in one way or another. She has absolutely nothing better to do than educate Nath about potatoes. "You can do basically anything with them, really. I've been to places where they're sliced and fried and you can put almost any kind of spice in them. My mother used to get them for us in the winter and tuck them into the coals in the stove to bake them. If you have cheese and butter it's basically the best thing in the world."

Nath looks impressed, poking at her mashed potatoes. "Are they an animal?"

Miri is not quite certain how to respond to this.

"...No," she decides on.

Nath nods thoughtfully before carefully setting her spoon down and focusing on the slices of turkey. That, at least, is something she's familiar with.

"You don't have potatoes in the Underdark?" Al asks curiously, squeezing a lemon over his fish. A choked yelp from Rennic suggests that his aim could be better. He has to speak up a bit; the tavern is suddenly abuzz with excitement over the arrival of some minor lordling or other; judging by the giggly nature of some of the barmaids, a handsome one. "I thought you might, they grow underground."

"They might have them in Middledark or Upperdark," Nath offers. "In Lowerdark we just have fungi and some hyoscyameae."

Oh, of course. A good honest all-purpose tuber that thrives underground is out of the question, but somehow they manage to grow deadly nightshade. Miri doesn't really linger on it. It's been a long time since she got a chance to just relax and eat good warm food they didn't have to kill themselves.

Naturally, just as she's finally about to take her first bite, everything goes to hell.

Al, sitting next to Miri, suddenly jerks upright and yells "Hostile!"

Everything after that is sort of confusing. There's a drow, a tall one, with a knife in his hand and two swords sheathed at his sides, and nobody's screaming at the sight. It's only after Nath's head has snapped around and the knife disintegrates as it touches her ribs that Miri realises _why_ it had been drawn, that the attack she's been half waiting for since meeting Nath has come from the least likely source she can imagine.

"Drizzt," Nath says in what's nearly a growl and pulls off her heavy cloak as she stands.

The man is openly disgusted, lip curling as his hand drifts toward the hilt of one of his mismatched swords. Miri is torn between being impressed by his appearance and rolling her eyes. Tight-fitting jet-black leather armour is all well and good in _stories_...and, admittedly, in contrast with his eerie ash-coloured skin and white hair, a striking design choice… but who in the world would wear something like that every _day?_

_Well, an adventurer,_ she admits to herself, and it's not as if Rennic isn't just as bad. Still. At least his worn leather and dull clothes are _practical._

"Auvryren, isn't it?" the drow practically spits, looking Nath over with disgust. "Nathcyrl. Long time no see."

"_Telanth dosst ligah xanalress_. Or have you forgotten it?" she adds in Elven.

"Why do you have spikes on your boots?" Miri asks, having just noticed them.

She's ignored by both of the drow. Nath hisses "_Og'elend_," and then the two of them are arguing in what Miri thinks, from hearing conversations between Nath and Rennic, is Undercommon. Nath doesn't even come up to his chest, and it's almost comical before considering they look like they might actually kill each other with their bare hands. Given Miri would usually put good money on Nath losing a wrestling match with a wet towel, it's a rather impressive amount of indignant fury.

"Seriously," Miri persists, "What are they even _for_?"

The tavern crowd has turned into a sort of makeshift ring, and it's dead silent. Most people've probably never seen two drow in the same place, and certainly not fighting each other, if they have.

"Not now, dear," Nath says patiently, before turning back to Drizzt with an angry tirade which at one point contains a heavily accented 'Chaotic Evil'. Or at least, that's what Miri assumes it is. She might be talking about kale.

Drizzt's hand tightens furiously on his sword hilt, but he lifts his chin disdainfully and answers her in a carefully measured tone, and Nath _shrieks_, which makes half the tavern jump and Miri intensely concerned, as sparks are starting to flicker at Nath's fingertips and there's a smug look on Drizzt's face that's giving Miri a sick feeling.

Nath's voice is shaking when she finds her voice again, and Miri wouldn't think it possible for a drow to pale but she looks distinctly ill.

"You're a bastard," Miri says conversationally. "Also, your spikes look _really _awful. Seriously, did you find the tackiest bard in Faerûn and let him design that stuff?"

"Shut up," Drizzt barks.

"You shut up," she says, which is not her strongest retort in history, but she's mostly concerned with Nath, who is actually shaking with rage. Drizzt's body language has shifted from overtly confrontational to a sort of tense, coiled watchfulness, he's _waiting_ for something, and Nath looks very much too far gone to see it.

"Nathcyrl," Al says quietly, warningly from beside her, and Miri knows he's seen the same thing she has. Fat lot of good it does them, when he points it out in Common. "Don't do it, it's what he wants."

She tries to get Nath's attention, but she's speaking in low, biting, painful Undercommon—or so Miri assumes_—_with power starting to leak into her voice, and by now Miri's seen her in enough confrontations on the road to tell when she's about to start cursing people. Drizzt tenses in readiness, and she knows without a doubt that something awful is about to happen.

She grabs Allerod's fish and throws it at the drow's head.

It's not precisely _helpful_, per se. But it's certainly a distraction, and he's distinctly less threatening when there are bits of breaded trout stuck to his face. If nothing else it achieves its goal; Nath is distracted by the fact that her opponent is suddenly cursing and batting hot fish out of his eyes, and whatever spell she had been preparing is lost as she blinks in bewilderment.

"We should leave," Rennic says flatly. Miri notices with no small amount of exasperation that he's been calmly eating his steak throughout the confrontation.

"Agreed," Allerod mutters, nudging Miri out of her chair. She grabs Nath's elbow and drags her outside, elbowing through the crowd. She half-expects to be stabbed in the back, but Drizzt doesn't follow them_—_maybe he does have a shred of decency left in him, Miri thinks. Or maybe he just doesn't know how to react to having people's dinner thrown at his face.

"I had everything under control," Nath insists under her breath as Miri and Al hurry her away from the tavern (Rennic, upon realising they had left Kadek at the bar, has reluctantly doubled back to get him).

"You looked it," Al observes in a moment of rare dryness.

"What were you two even arguing about?" Miri glances nervously over her shoulder, but apart from a brief, mildly curious look from a passing pair of women nobody is paying them much attention.

"Men's rights," says Nath.

* * *

**Sunset on the second day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Thatcher House in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

While Carter basks in the glow of the imagined glory of _meeting Drizzt Do'Urden_, Miri looks back for Nath. The fact that she is no longer there is cause for serious concern. Or it would be, if there wasn't a little scrap of faded blue fabric sticking out from under the far corner of the table.

"Um, one minute, Carter... Nath?" Leaning over to peer under the table, Miri finds Nath huddled against a leg in the back corner, as far away as possible from the others. Her slightly sheepish expression suggests that she'd dived under the table as soon as Carter had entered and was unsure how to make a reappearance. "Nath, come on out, he's not _that _scary."

"Must I?"

Miri almost says 'yes' before she catches herself. "Not if you don't want to," she says with a slight smile. "But if you stay down here Carter will probably just come to you."

Nath makes a nervous sound in the back of her throat; staying there would mean _no quick escape_, and this is clearly not preferable. "Alright," she says finally.

"Hey, who's down there?" asks Carter, bouncing over.

"She's very shy," Miri says sternly, holding out an arm to stop him. "And she doesn't speak Common. Do you know Elven, Carter?" He nods, and Miri, reassured by the fact that the question had been asked in Elven, looks back at Nath. "Come on out," she says reassuringly, offering a hand to coax her into the open. "They're not going to eat you, you know. My nephew just wants to say hello."

Red eyes peek out from under the wood, and are followed by Nath's small form as she crawls out from her hiding place. Miri moves back to let her out, taking her hand and helping her stand without any awkward fumbling.

A timid "Hello." Nath is shorter than Carter.

"Hi," he says in a tone normally reserved for frightened animals, clearly taken aback by her appearance but more fascinated than frightened. "I'm Carter. What's your name?"

"Nathcyrl." She curtsies with surprising ease. "Nice to meet you." If she tried as hard as she could, the phrase might possibly sound less natural, but at least she remembers what Miri's crash course in appropriate human greetings.

"Nice to meet you," Carter grins, thrilled to have made a friend who looks so very interesting. "Are you an adventurer, too?"

Oh, good. She can do this. It doesn't have anything to do with vague and casually-worded niceties (Humans, she thinks sourly, are very strange). She nods. "I'm a Mage."

"Cool!" Carter exclaims predictably. "What kind of magic do you do?"

"My primary domain is Necromancy, if that's what you mean. I do all kinds of magic, though."

"Necromancy?" Don's tone is not terribly approving.

"Among other things," Miri says easily, slipping her hand into Nath's and giving it a small squeeze. "Where are the girls?"

Perfectly on cue, the door swings open again, this time much less explosively. "We're back!" calls a slim, willowy woman with dark brown hair. She glances away, holding the door open for a miniature version of herself, younger and with slightly lighter, curlier hair. "We got sidetracked, someone's shipped in a bunch of glass window charms and we couldn't resist taking a look..."

"Aunt Miri!"

The delighted cry comes from the girl, and her mother looks up and spots Miri for the first time. "Miria! Welcome home—what is _that?_"

Nath presses closer to Miri's side, inching behind her again; she doesn't have to speak the language to read the way the woman stares. Miri squeezes her hand tightly. "Hey, Lynn," she says in pointed Elven. More gently, she reaches back and encourages Nath back out into the open, slipping a protective arm around her. "Nath, this is my sister-in-law, Lynn Thatcher, and that's my niece Alice. Alice, Lynn, this is Nath." She flickers a look between the three adults in the room, meeting their eyes briefly in turn. "We've been together for the better part of a year now, and I wanted you to meet her."

There's a brief, stunned silence. Nath stares at the floor, and seems to emanate an aura of blushing embarrassment, while not actually visibly blushing in any way. Red-tinted black was still black.

"You failed to mention _that_," Don mutters under his breath.

Alice is focused on a different aspect. "But... she's a girl!" she points out, frowning in honest confusion.

Nath's eyes raise at her voice. "Really?" she says. "I hadn't noticed."

Don steps forward and crosses his arms, not overtly threatening but very _present_, in the manner of protective older brothers across all species. He looks Nath over from head to toe, which doesn't take very long, so he does it again. Finally, he clears his throat and announces, "I don't care how powerful you are. You hurt my sister, there won't be enough magic in the world to bring you back."

Nath looks at him, calmly meeting his eyes. "I don't doubt your sincerity for a moment, though I do doubt your _ability_. I should pray it not come to that—I would hate to disappoint you."

There's a loaded pause as the two stare each other down; for the moment, they are the only ones in the room.

"So..." says Carter, oblivious to the tension,"you two are dating?"

"Yes," Miri says quietly, keeping an eye on Nath and Don in case of explosions.

Carter considers this for a moment.

"You're dating a Mage?" he exclaims finally. "You're the coolest person _ever!"_

The tension shatters as Don cracks a reluctant smile at his exuberant offspring. "So what are you, anyway?" Carter continues, leaning around Miri to get a better look. "I've never seen _anything_ like you before!"

Nath looks up at the boy, and in the same calm tone, softly replies, "I'm drow."

The reaction is only to be expected; there are shocked gasps all around, Lynn yanks Alice back by the arm, and Carter about dies with excitement before a dangerous look from his father shuts him up.

"Miri," Don says, deadly serious, "I'd like to speak with you."

"Go ahead."

"_Alone."_

"Anything you want to say, you can say it here. They're old enough."

Don doesn't look like he agrees, but after a few seconds of silently fuming, he explodes, "A drow necromancer, Miria? What are you _thinking_? Have you gone Evil, or just _insane_?"

"Chaotic Neutral," Miri mutters.

"How can you justify bringing... _that_... _here_? And you!" He rounds furiously on Nath. "I don't know what _your_ game is, but if you're... controlling her or something—"

"_Don!"_

"What?" he snaps. "Miri, something is _wrong_ with you!"

"Is it?" she asks, taking a step forward. She would go further, but Nath is rooted to the floor and she can't bear to let her go. "Do I _look_ like I'm under some kind of spell? I'm not asking you to understand, Don, because you don't and that's not your fault, there are things I can't tell you—don't ask, it's private, you're going to have to _trust me!_"

"Dad," Carter ventures. "Dad, not _all_ drow are bad..."

Miri casts him a grateful look; the boy has edged _towards_ Nath since Miri moved, almost out of some sort of protective instinct.

"She's not going to _hurt _you, Don," she says fervently. "This is _hard_ for her, she's _scared _of humans, but I begged her to come and she did, for _me._ I've never been anything but safe with her, I promise. But she's not going anywhere unless _she_ wants to, so you'd better get used to her now."

Another weighty pause. This time it's Katerina who breaks the silence.

"Don," she asks conversationally, "did you and Carter manage to catch anything?"

Carter brightens. "We caught three, and one of them's really big!"

"It's not _that_ big," Don says doubtfully. "Don't know if it'd be enough for seven."

"We'll make it stretch," Kat decides, businesslike. "Alice, if you could help me?"

"I'll help clean the fish!" Carter offers enthusiastically.

Nath mumbles for a moment, and then raises her voice. "Er. I've got something, I just have to cook it. I wasn't sure if..." She trails off awkwardly.

"If...?" Lynn prompts, and Miri smiles slightly at her encouraging tone.

Nath shifts uncomfortably, and Kat seems to get it. "The fish will keep," she decides. "What were you thinking of making?"

"Do you need help?" asks Carter eagerly.

"Wow. She _is_ a Mage," Lynn says in an undertone to her husband. "Carter just volunteered to help _cook._"

* * *

**Afternoon on the seventh day of the second week of Deepwinter in the Year of the Worm.  
** **A Shire near Starmantle in the Dragon Coast.**

"B-b-but you can't just _leave _us!" the halfling yelped, clutching his floppy yellow hat to his head as he jogged to keep up with Allerod. "They're coming back _tonight_, they _said_ they would, _we_ can't fight them!"

"Don't you have any guards?" Rennic asked impatiently, tugging his arm away from a second, chubbier halfling who was attempting to hold him in place by force and has been dragged along for the past half-mile.

"Why would we have _guards?_" the halfling wailed. "Nothing ever _happened_ here before those _things_ showed up!"

Miri edges between two anxious halflings. "Couldn't you hire some?"

"We're trying!" several of them chorus together.

"Except everyone's too scared to go far on the roads—"

"We're trying to hire _you_—_"_

"We don't have a whole lot—"

"We don't _know_ any guards!"

"Miria," Nath says patiently, tugging on Miri's sleeve so the half-elf can find her in the sea of extremely short people. "What are they so upset about?"

Miri attempts to translate the frantic pieced-together story, which has something to do with a haunting, or possibly stalking—well, their village is being terrorised _somehow_ by…

"How did you describe them again?" Miri cringes back from the explosion of eagerly helpful descriptions.

"Big!"

"And black!"

"_Creepy,"_ shudders a blonde man. "All wrong."

"They sound kinda like this," offers a younger halfling with one of his braces hanging loose, before making a kind of deeply horrifying sound that's something of a cross between a cat with a hairball, a dying bellows, and Allerod's snoring.

Nath's eyes light up. "_Wraiths_," she breathes, before Miri even has a chance to translate for her. "We'll help you."

"We will?" Rennic says under his breath.

* * *

**Moondark on the seventh day of the second week of Deepwinter in the Year of the Worm.  
** **A Shire near Starmantle in the Dragon Coast.**

The tattered black robes the wraiths wear have nothing beneath them. From empty hoods issue commands in a language which doesn't sound like anything Miri knows but understands all the same, their voices creaking under the weight of words which aren't so much spoken as forced into having been, the whispers of abyssal planes hiding beneath them. Their horses buck, black hair matte in a way that shouldn't be, and their eyes glow the red of Darkvision which still catches her off-guard sometimes when she wakes in the middle of the night. A turn of the head and they're nearly invisible against the night sky, eyes flashing for a moment and then nothing again, as if they were only imagined.

It's freezing, Miri can see her breath crystallise in the air, but neither the wraiths nor their mounts seem to experience the same.

THE TABLETS OF FATE, the wraiths command as one, their atonal voice coming to her ears without passing the air, WHERE HAVE YOU HIDDEN THEM?

"What tablets?" says Miri. "I don't know anything about any tablets, sorry."

INSOLENT CREATURE, the wraiths rebuke, and the nearest hood turns to stare down at her from its horse. WE SHALL DESTROY YOU.

Nath laughs, unclasping her cloak as she finally steps out of the shadows across the road. The wraiths whirl to face her.

"Really?" she says casually, "Do you think?"

She bares her teeth.

* * *

**Morning on the eighth day of the second week of Deepwinter in the Year of the Worm.  
** **Outside a Shire near Starmantle in the Dragon Coast.**

"I can't believe you're _eating it."_

Rennic sounds faintly sick.

"I did offer you some," Nath points out reasonably. "It's not my fault you turned it down."

"You're _eating it," _Rennic repeats.

Miri peers at Nath's sandwich in equal parts horror and fascination. The overjoyed halflings had piled what seems like half the provisions in their entire village onto the party before they left this morning, and Nath has cheerfully appropriated one of their loaves of bread to make a sandwich. It should look delicious—fluffy white bread with crisp lettuce and fresh tomatoes. It _does_ look delicious, actually. It's just that the meat is all lumpy. And a creepy sort of ashen grey. And wriggling slightly more than is normal for a sandwich.

"For that matter," Al says, "_how_ are you eating it? It doesn't even exist on the Prime Material Plane! Frankly I'm surprised it's _visible_."

"Racial ability," Nath shrugs. "Would you like to try it, Miri? It's very good."

"I'll pass," Miri says absently, watching the wraithburger attempt to escape its loaf and wiggle to freedom. Nath draws her knife casually, clucks her tongue at it in a mild rebuke, and stabs her lunch brutally through the heart. The sandwich gives a mournful wail and shrinks back into its bun.

"I tried your ale," says Nath. "Come now, just one bite." Helpfully, she pulls off a bite-sized piece and holds it out.

ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴsᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀᴀɪᴛʜs! the sandwich shrieks. Miri shrugs and eats it.

Allerod looks horrifically disturbed and half-convinced he is about to have to exorcise her.

"It could use some salt," she muses.

Nath takes another bite, chews carefully, and nods in agreement. "I'll have to pick some up in the next village."

"I'm going to be sick," Rennic decides flatly.

"You're not the one who ate a wraith," Miri retorts as something in her stomach squirms angrily. "Okay, that's not normal. I feel weird."

"Don't worry, it's only your aura's magical resonance shifting to account for the alignment of the wraith."

"What?" says Miri, wincing as the sandwich throws itself against her stomach lining.

"Welcome to Chaotic Neutrality," Rennic smirks.

Nath ignores him. "You're incompatible with it right now. It should just take a minute for everything to settle. Do you want some more?"

Miri glances at the sandwich, which somehow manages to glare back at her. Its counterpart shoves irritably at her internal organs.

"...Yeah, all right."

* * *

**Evening on the second day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Thatcher House in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

"This is good!" Don sounds taken aback. "This is actually very good."

He's right. There had been pitfalls in the preparation, some involving ingredients ("Humans can't eat hemlock?") and many more involving Carter "I Can Do That!" Thatcher, who had somehow managed to cover himself in flour while preparing a recipe that didn't actually involve flour in any way. In the end, Nath ended up doing most of the work herself, with Alice shyly chopping ingredients in the background, Don keeping a close eye on what went into the food and everyone else dedicating themselves to containing Hurricane Carter.

But the result is both nontoxic and delicious, and Nath is clearly proud of the outcome. "It's a traditional meal among my people," she explains happily. "Well, not really, because a lot of it is apparently 'unfit for human consumption', and a lot of other things no-one sold, like dire-rats, which don't live in the World Above? And I would have made the wine that's usually had with it, except that the fermenters only had grapes and potatoes and wheat, and... ew." She shudders in remembrance of experiences with human alcohol in the various taverns they've gone to. "And the leaves I would use for a tea were only in the apothecary—humans are allergic to the _oddest_ things—so..."

Alice gives her plate a sudden apprehensive look, then shrugs and digs back in.

"It's delicious, Nath," Miri tells her softly.

Don nods in agreement, wiping his hands on a napkin as he sits back. "So, Nath," he says casually. "You're drow? Must be difficult, being part of a race that everyone always assumes is Evil." Carter's put down his fork and is paying rapt attention. "What did you say your alignment was, again?"

Miri freezes.

Nath coughs awkwardly, and reaches for her long-forgotten tea, in hopes of putting this off for just a bit longer. Unfortunately, the tea isn't actually anything like tea as she's aware of, and she has to discreetly spit it back into the cup. _Ew_. "I'm... er. I'm Chaotic Evil, actually." She winces. Miri had said to try and avoid talk of alignments.

"Really." He looks at Miri, unsurprised.

Carter looks crushed. "What?" he cries. "But... I thought... you don't _act _Evil! Are you_ sure_?"

Nath sighs. "I'm rather sure, yes. I've been locked in Devil's Traps, hunted by Paladins... All sorts of things." She mutters something unintelligible under her breath and then quickly continues, "It's very rare for drow to have a different alignment than one of the Evil sort; it has to do with what sort of magic is attracted to your aura, and very much favoured for human use. Our auras don't have the same sort of variety as those of humans do, and even then, you have to remember that it doesn't have anything to do with morality. It doesn't say anything about what a person is really _like_."

"That works both ways," Miri points out, focusing on Carter and trying to ignore the very human aura of slowly building fury coming from her brother's general direction. "I'll bet you know a lot of people who have a Good alignment and aren't nice, right?"

Carter nods slowly. "And there are Evil people who aren't mean?"

Miri puts an arm around Nath, giving a meaningful nod in her direction. "You tell me."

* * *

**The fifth or sixth day of the second week of the Claw of the Sunsets in the Year of the Worm.  
** **A Portable Hole just within the border of Cormyr.**

Miria Scuttleleaf is in her happy place.

It's not perfect, obviously; there's no more floor space in this hole than is absolutely necessary, the walls are thin, and the window doesn't quite open all the way. But it's a cool night, she's curled up under a warm blanket on a mattress with nothing living in it, they've gone to bed at an hour that means she might actually get _sleep_ tonight, and someone is moving around the room.

Utter contentment wars briefly with survival instinct, loses, and concedes with ill grace. Heavy, sleep-encrusted eyes creak open, and she wonders briefly if the adrenaline rush would be enough to let her brutally murder the familiar figure that woke her up.

"Nath?" she slurs. "W's goin' on?"

"Dark magic," the drow replies shortly; she's dressing.

Miri stretches, trying to blink the sleep out of her eyes. "Wha' kind?" she yawns, frowning as she attempts to focus. Belatedly, an alarm bell goes off in her head; presumably whoever was manning it had been asleep as well. "When you say dark magic..." There are many things she's discovered she doesn't actually mind as much as she thought, being with Nath. She draws the line at Dark rituals being performed while she is trying to _sleep._

"_Under_dark magic, yes." She sounds almost... excited. "I wonder what they're doing up here?"

"Oh." Miri relaxes, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders and flopping back down onto the pillow. "You saw it." She frowns. "Where are you going, then? It's..." She looks at the window, which is useless. "...late," she finishes. "Or possibly early."

"I'm going to see where they're going, and if perhaps it's in the same direction we are," Nath replies, shrugging on a vaguely brownish robe.

"Mmm," Miri mumbles, trying to snuggle her way back to that nice soft spot she'd found earlier. "Have a nice..."

_Click._

"Nath!" She struggles for a moment, trying to bolt out of bed and disentangle herself from the blanket at the same time. "Um... about that. I really don't think you should—that's a really, _really_ bad—you can't just run off by your—ow—self..."

...Oh gods, she realises. Nath honestly sees no flaw in this plan. She sees _nothing wrong_ with the idea of going out alone in the dead of night to find an Evil necromancer and _ask him if he wanted to travel with them._

She sighs.

"I'm coming with you."

* * *

**Moondark on the fifth day of the second week of the Claw of the Sunsets in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Middle of Nowhere.**

"Ow."

Miri aims a vicious kick at the bush that had jabbed her shin, succeeding in nothing more than briefly trapping her foot in a tangle of poking twigs. She yanks it free just in time to turn around and almost kill herself tripping over a root, a fate she avoids by grabbing onto something with a lot of thorns. "_Ow!_ Nath, why can't we ever do these things when I can _see?_ Ah!_"_

_Thud._

"Ow."

"Now you know how I feel," Nath mutters, grabbing her wrist. "Follow me."

Muttering about trees, Miri lets herself be pulled to her feet, trying to follow in her guide's exact footsteps. It works perfectly for a few seconds, until Miri is hauled face-first into a low-hanging branch that Nath had walked right under.

"OW!"

Nath makes an exasperated noise, and Miri glares at her, rubbing her skull and trusting that she can see the filthy look. There's a sigh, and Miri tries to feel her way up to the elf in the dark. She's surprised when an unexpectedly gentle hand slips into hers. "Stay close," Nath mutters, pulling her through the trees much more carefully this time, giving Miri time to use her free hand to feel out low branches and twigs; there was never a chance of walking through a spiderweb when you were with a drow.

They're walking then for what may as well be hours—there's a timeless sort of feeling here, all of the trees and the animals and everything, she can imagine, is exactly as it might have been thousands of years before, and it's beautiful, even if she can't see it.

They don't talk at all, as they walk through the trees, but it's not an awkward sort of silence; they're listening to the four-footed creatures moving through the dead leaves and the two-footed ones through the living. She's just begun to genuinely relax and enjoy herself when Nath stiffens, free hand coming up to stop her in her tracks. She's staring into the trees, apparently at nothing, but Miri follows her gaze as best she can nonetheless.

For several seconds, it just looks dark. Then something moves, and Miri realises what Nath's been seeing. It's a good deal to the left of where Miri had been looking, but if she squints there's just barely enough of a moon to make out two or three people a good distance away, moving about.

Nath signals to her to be very, very quiet, and she moves carefully, crouched; she's so tiny she could almost be mistaken for just another woodland creature, Miri thinks. She moves silently, though whether she's not stepping on any stray twigs or if she's just so light that they aren't breaking beneath her it's hard to say. Miri follows as best she can.

She can hear voices now, talking in an unintelligible but familiar language, and the voices don't appear to have noticed them yet.

As they creep closer, Miri can make out a bit more. There's not much to see—a trio of drow, which comes as a bit of a shock, but it's just them and a few tents.

Nath grabs Miri's hand again, less gently this time; she squeezes with a tense sort of strength, one she doesn't seem to realise she's using, and one would hardly have been able to tell, if they'd been watching—Nath's expression barely changes, but her grip is almost desperate.

She stands up, pulling Miri with her, and speaks—not loudly, but probably just enough to be heard comfortably from where the trio are milling about. "Chala, why are you in the World Above?"

Apparently Nath knows these people.

The tallest of the three whips around, shocked. The other two—much younger, by the look of them—are slower. They look surprised as well, but more the mild shock of having been startled than the first's borderline heart attack. The older seems to have collected herself, however, and Miri's not entirely certain if she wasn't imagining her momentary loss of composure. "No need to ask you the same question," she replies carelessly. "You _do _turn up, don't you? Most stop following their big sisters around when they turn thirty, Nathcyrl."

...Nath has a _sister_?

Nath closes her eyes for a moment, a sort of tired expression, and which Miri doesn't think she's seen before. It almost looks as though she's rolling her eyes. "Why are you in the World Above?" she repeats, her words clipped.

Chala raises an eyebrow. "I don't think that's any of your business. Run along and play, now. The grown-ups are busy." The amount of sarcasm dripping from the words could kill a horse.

Nath's eyes flit to the two younger drow, and she laughs harshly. "Grown-ups? I _do _hope you don't mean _them_. How old are they, forty?"

She smirks. "Eighty-nine and ninety-three, respectively. Children, really. Didn't anyone ever teach you to respect your elders, Nathcyrl? I seem to remember you learning that lesson rather well."

The two acolytes look to Chala, confused. Apparently they've not been let in on the topic.

"I was taught to respect my _betters_," corrects Nath. "Do you know where I might find one, by chance?"

Miri can't quite hold back a laugh, pleasantly surprised by the barb, and Chala spares her a short, disgusted look before turning back to Nath. "You never were much of a judge of character. Of course, it takes one to know one, doesn't it? Difficult to find character when you haven't any experience with it yourself."

"Of course not," says Nath, the only sign of her nervousness the grip she has on Miri's hand. "I'm an archetype. Characters are derivative."

Chala gives her a withering look. Up close, it's hard to believe the two are sisters; she's at least three inches taller than Nath, and even Miri can tell that they don't look much alike at all. They have the same princess curls, though Nath's are tighter and longer; and the same eyes, though in terms of drow familial resemblance that's a bit of a stretch, and the similarities end there. Chala is visibly older, just as visibly cockier, and looks as though she hasn't had to deal with any of Nath's difficulties. She's actually quite pretty; not nearly as... disarming as Nath, more natural. Her dress is a rather stunning shade of red, with delicate embroidery matching that on her scarf. It stands in stark contrast to her sister's mismatched, repeatedly-mended ensemble, most of which was clearly put together by someone who couldn't tell the colour of the fabric.

Miri realises idly that she really, really hates her.

"_What_ are you doing here?" Chala asks impatiently. "I don't have time for you, Nathcyrl, so if it was help you were after—"

Nath does that thing with her eyes again. "I'm here because _you _can't manage to be unobtrusive." She nods to a pile of rocks: a makeshift altar.

"Of course, how silly of me," Chala replies dryly. "Here I thought that being a forty-five minute hike through the woods from the nearest sentient creature would be enough to ensure us some form of privacy. What are you doing _here_?"

"Well," says Nath, "when someone is calling up pockets of faerzress onto the Prime Material Plane, I like to know _why_."

Miri looks mystified. "What's...?"

Chala glances over at the interruption, raising an eyebrow slightly and flicking a dismissive look over Miri. Her gaze falls for a moment on their tightly-clasped hands, and the second eyebrow goes up. She gives Nath an expectant, challenging look, as if to say 'Well?'

"Anti-scrying measure," murmurs Nath. "It's not important." Her eyes don't leave Chala's, and Miri is left feeling as though she's watching some sort of fight for dominance—who will look away first?

As the charged staring contest goes on, a slow smile spreads across Chala's face. "Oh, _no_," she grins, sounding as if she's just been handed her heart's desire on a silver platter. "This is too much. You've _fallen _for it, haven't you." It's not even phrased as a question.

"I'm sorry," says Nath, still not looking away, "what have I fallen for? You mustn't mean Miria, here. She's not an 'it'."

"Oh, so it _is _female!" Chala says mockingly. "I couldn't tell. Playacting the dominant, Nathcyrl? You don't seem to have trained her very well." She gives Miri another once-over, slower this time, and smirks. "I'd be happy to give you a few tips. A practical demonstration, perhaps—"

Miri knocks her hand away with a filthy look. "Some people don't need to use _force _to get a little company."

"Oh?" asks Chala, raising an eyebrow. "Well, Nathcyrl, you _have _managed better than I thought."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Miri demands.

Chala's eyes never leave Nath, but her smirk grows more pronounced as her pair of acolytes titters openly in the background. "Much better," she adds, amused. "Still, I may borrow her sometime. To... oh, how should I put this..." She makes an exaggerated show of thinking about it. "...show her the ropes?"

Nath's face remains carefully expressionless, but her hold on Miri's hand tightens, receiving a reassuring squeeze in return. It doesn't go unnoticed: Chala looks almost annoyed. "Oh, don't look so _worried_," she snaps, and wrenches Miri away from Nath, fingers wrapping tightly around her upper arm. "She'll come running right back to you, given she _has to_. Really, how pathetically possessive can you _get?_"

"I don't _have _to do anything," Miri snaps, trying to pry her arm out of Chala's grip. "Unless you count breathing, which doesn't have anything to do with Nath."

Chala only squeezes harder, pulling her in so that Miri can feel her breath in her ear. "So you haven't told your little pet about her leash!" she exclaims gleefully, and runs an ebony finger down the line of Miri's jaw.

Miri, resisting the urge to bite her, twists away as much as she can, pleading silently for Nath to _help_; but Nath isn't moving, or even, it seems, aware of her presence. "What are you _talking _about?"

Chala laughs softly. "Your binding spell, dear," she purrs, speaking directly to Miri for the first time. Her fingers stroke lightly along Miri's jugular, tilting her head delicately to the side. Miri freezes, overwhelmingly aware of what it means to be at the mercy of a drow priestess, that there is one holding onto her, fingers around her arm and on her pulse, and that her only possible saviour is no such thing. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Chala smiling.

"The one that marks you hers as much as if she'd collared you..." The drow nips at Miri's exposed neck, chuckling when she flinches away. "The one cast so as to take advantage of a moment of intimacy, when you're at your weakest, your most vulnerable... if I know my sister," she adds with a condescending smirk, " the one cast the night you _met_."

She smiles at the tiny, hurt intake of breath, of recognition.

"_What was that...?"_

_"A verse from the Kultar. Sleep now."_

The fingers that had been ghosting along Miri's throat catch her unresisting chin, pulling it towards the drow, forcing her to make eye contact. "The one that ties you to the caster like a leash, or have you never even wondered why you go with her so willingly? Every time you think about leaving, you just can't bring yourself to do it, can you?" she asks with mock sympathy. A wicked grin flashes into existence. "You _are _better than I thought, Nathcyrl; look at her, the poor devoted thing, has she never even _thought _about it?"

She glances between Miri's heartbroken expression and Nath's lack of any expression to speak of, and the grin widens into incredulous glee. "Oh, pet. Did you think you loved her?" Her voice is almost tender, a twisted contrast to her words as she slips an arm around Miri's waist and pulls her roughly closer, lips brushing over her skin in a parody of intimacy. "Was that it? Some deep connection keeping you at her side? Did you fancy yourself in a love ballad, little one? You're her _lapdog. _You handed her the key to your chains and you didn't even notice you were wearing them. Nathcyrl, I'm _impressed!_" Her laugh is nothing short of delighted.

"I—I don't believe you," Miri stammers, a quaver in her voice that says anything but. "Nath...?" The look she casts over to the drow is nothing short of desperate.

Her... mistress(?) has eyes downcast. She's fidgeting, her fingers making tense little movements where they hang at her sides, and she looks miserable. Miserable and _guilty_, and Miri feels sick.

"Nath..." Miri whispers. She sounds like she's just lost her whole world. "Why...?"

"Why would you _do_ this to me?" Chala finishes for her mockingly. She grips Miri's elbow again, tighter than before, letting go of her waist to wind her free hand painfully into Miri's hair. "Because she wanted to," she says, her voice losing its playful edge. "Anything beyond that, pretty one, is none of your business."

Miri winces, tilting her head at an awkward angle to try to lessen the pull on her scalp, fighting to keep her voice under control. She can't keep it from cracking slightly. "H-how is it not my—"

"Because," Chala spits, sounding disgusted, "you _belong_ to her. She can do what she likes with you." She shakes Miri's head roughly. "Do you _still_ not understand that? She does not love you. You never loved _her!_ You're a slave, you're _property_, and you have been allowed _far_ more freedom than you ought, because my _dear _sister cannot manage to do _anything_ right!" She pauses for a long moment, hand still clenched in a trembling Miri's hair. "...But I'm not my sister, am I, pet?" she says softly, more focused and infinitely more threatening. "_I_ know exactly what to do with an insolent little half-breed bedslave."

Ignoring Miri's whimpers of protest, Chala flicks her tongue across the very tip of her captive's ear. "Well," she says slowly, biting her way along the edge at a leisurely pace. Her eyes never leave Nath's, and the laughter dancing in them is anything but friendly. "You did one thing right, at least. Let your little plaything think she _wanted_ you." Miri tries to deny how badly the words hurt, but can't completely choke back a sob. She can feel Chala's smirk as the drow pulls her head back, runs sharp fingernails across her belly, under her tunic. "Mmm... It was almost a shame to shatter _that _particular illusion. I may have to try it sometime." Miri spasms, wanting to throw her off but not quite daring to move, and Chala laughs quietly.

"She probably picked that little trick up from daddy," she murmurs against Miri's neck, giving her hair a cruel twist. "Little Nathcyrl always was his favourite."

There's a shriek of pure hatred, a sound that might be wordless, or maybe Miri just doesn't speak the language, and she isn't sure what's happening, only that in less time than it takes to realise it her head is dragged sharply back and then Chala is lying dead at her feet.

When she looks up, Nath is shaking, her arm held loosely out in front of her as though all of her energy was put into her scream and good form could go hang.

Until this moment, Miri had never quite understood the concept of complete and utter silence.

It has a weight, a presence, all its own; she wants nothing more than to move, whether to hit Nath or hug her she doesn't know, but it's more than she is capable of to break this kind of tension.

Luckily, someone else doesn't have that difficulty. A small movement at the corner of her eye draws Miri's attention; one of the young acolytes has reached out to tap her friend's elbow. For several moments, the two look at her, then at Nath, then back, and then silently decide that they have somewhere else to be right now that's much more important.

Nobody, she thinks dimly, can fade into shadows quite like the drow.

Which brings her back to Nath.

She's trembling, hand still outstretched as if she's forgotten it's there, and any anger Miri might have held against her dissolves at the look on her face, lost and pained and more alone than she's ever seen her.

"...Nath?"

The drow looks absolutely miserable. "Go," she says, so quietly that Miri can hardly hear her, and her arm falls limply to her side.

Miri takes a hesitant step towards her, carefully avoiding Chala's body. "I'm not going anywhere."

Nath meets her eyes, and repeats: "Just _go!_" in an anguished cry.

Miri pauses, watches her for a moment.

"Make me."

When there's no response, she says more forcefully, "_Make me._ Prove her right!" There's another pause. "So it's true, then," she says shakily. "I'll have to leave if you tell me to, won't I?"

The drow averts her eyes. "No," she corrects, "you can go wherever you like. _Do_ whatever you like. _I_ can't."

"...What?"

"She recognised the bond, but she made assumptions, rather than looking closer." A sigh. "_You_ control _me_."

The hand that had almost been reaching out to her is snapped back. "_What?_" This time it's a whisper. "I... _why?"_

"Who else?" asks Nath. "Allerod? Kadek? _Rennic?"_

"Nobody!" Miri cries. "Nath, I don't _want_ to... why would you..." She trails off helplessly. After a short pause, she lets out a long breath, sounding tired. "I don't understand," she sighs, taking one of Nath's trembling hands and rubbing it distractedly between her own. "I don't understand at all. Are you all right?"

Nath shrugs halfheartedly—as though it doesn't matter, and as far as she's concerned, it probably doesn't. Miri sighs again, playing idly with the delicate fingers intertwined with hers.

"Why didn't you tell me, Nath?" she asks finally. "I would have done things differently..."

"You wouldn't have agreed," says Nath, in that tiny voice, the one that makes her sound her actual age.

"No! I wouldn't have!" Miri exclaims. "I don't _want_ to control you, I certainly don't want to _own_ you, you _know_ that—why? Why would you… Why would you _do_ that to yourself?" Her voice lowers; she looks hurt. "Nath... I thought... I assumed you _cared _about..." She cuts that line of thinking off before it can do even more damage. Besides; there's a much more important question. Already dreading the answer, she asks "How much of...was just because you _had _to?"

Nath stands there for a moment, awkwardly, and Miri feels her stomach drop in horror. Then the drow meets her eyes, and kisses her softly (_oh how cute, she's en pointe_), and says, "That was because I wanted to."

And Miri hugs her tightly, then, holds the tiny drow as close as she can without hurting her, kisses her temple and nuzzles into her hair, closing her eyes and breathing her in because this, right here, is real; and something huge has just changed that will need to be addressed but this is _real_, and for now...

...for now, that's enough.

* * *

**Evening on the second day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Thatcher House in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

By the time dinner draws to a close, it's difficult to believe that Miri's brother had _ever _greeted her with open arms. He's barely engaging in any sort of conversation with her, and what he has to say is concise and cold, like he's holding back a flood of vitriol.

Lynn looks between the two nervously. "Alice, Carter, let's go get ready for bed."

"But _muuuum_," Carter moans, anxious to hear Miri's tales of adventuring with sundry races and alignments.

"No 'but's, Carter, it's late. I'll read you one of your stories, alright? Come on." Her voice is light but firm. "Say goodnight. Alice, you too."

Miri puts on as cheerful a smile as she can manage for the sake of the kids. Carter gives her a one-armed hug, looking deeply concerned, and she wonders if she's not quite as good an actress as she thought.

"You're still gonna tell us about Silverymoon, right?" he demands, and this time her smile is genuine, if a bit sad.

"Of course I am," she says, ruffling his hair. _He looks just like his father_. "But only if you tell me all about what you and... James, right?... I want to hear what you two have been up to. Did you ever defeat the orc army by the mill?"

"There are dragons there now," Alice says with a rather adorable pout. "They kidnap princesses. And James and Carter take _forever_ rescuing me."

Miri musses Carter's hair one more time before pulling her niece into a tight hug. "Maybe next time you can help rescue yourself," she says in a conspiratorial whisper. "You princesses are much too important to waste time waiting to be rescued."

Alice grins shyly and squeezes her. "That's okay," she whispers. "James gets me snacks since I can't leave the tower until they kill the dragons."

"Time for bed," Don says firmly. Carter loudly announces his discontent with the situation but doesn't argue, and Alice hops out of Miri's lap willingly.

"Goodnight," she says shyly. Seemingly sensing that Nath would be unreceptive to a hug, Alice offers her a hand and history's most awkward handshake ensues, after a long moment of confusion which confirms Miri's suspicions Nath didn't know what they were. Carter blissfully ignores the tension and throws his arms around Nath in an enthusiastic hug, shockingly _not_ proceeding to an ill-timed death. Nath's eyes widen, and she looks more than a bit put off by the whole thing, but she makes half an effort to pat his back. Miri flashes her an encouraging look as subtly as she can.

_No killing, no maiming, no racist comments, and don't make my mother think you're going to murder me in my sleep._ _No killing, no maiming, no racist comments, and don't make my mother think you're going to murder me in my sleep._ _No killing, no maiming, no racist comments... _She can almost hear Nath reciting the guidelines to herself, and she reaches over to pry Carter off as gently as possible.

"Hey, buddy. Don't make your mum wait for you, alright?"

Carter finally agrees, after giving his aunt one last hug for good measure, and Lynn herds the two out of the kitchen and up to the loft room.

There's silence in the kitchen until their footsteps fade, and then Don stands.

"Well," he says with forced politeness, "it was certainly good to see you again, Miri."

"It was good to be home," she says quietly. He's returned to speaking Common; she doesn't. "I missed you."

His expression doesn't change, but something flickers painfully in Don's eyes for a moment. "It's late," he says shortly. "I'm sure you're tired. You should get going."

"You know," she says coolly, "I really think we should."

Somehow Don finds the nerve to be offended by her tone. He at least also has the decency not to react to it. "I wish you didn't have to," he says with finality. His tone is very clear; there will be no argument over the situation because there is nothing to discuss.

She tries not to let him see how much the dismissal hurts. _This is my home, too,_ she thinks with a sudden flash of anger. _It was mine before it was yours._

"It's funny," she says with as much casualness as she can manage. "I always used to look forward to coming through Freedale. I liked getting a chance to recharge here. It was always so nice to see the family grow. It's gotten much less inviting since I was here last." She leans back, feigning concern. "Has there been trouble?"

Don gives her a warning look that says rather clearly '_you know what's wrong here'._

_Of course I do, Don_, her glare replies. _I want to hear you say it._

Don grits his teeth, planting his hands flat on the table. "Fine," he bites out. "Do you really want to do this, Miria? _You need to get that thing out of my house."_

"She has a _name, _Don."

"You know the names I care about? Lynn. Alice. Carter. Mum_._ _You._ Miri, I know you want to protect her but that..." He at least manages not to say whatever word he was clearly thinking. "She's _dangerous_ and you don't seem to have any concept of—"

"Nathcyrl Auvryren." If she was less angry she would take a moment to be awestruck at the fact that she has somehow managed to pronounce it properly. "If you're going to call her a monster, you can at least use her _name_. She's a person, Don, not a cursed amulet or something, and are you just going to keep talking about her like she isn't here?" She glances over at Nath. "Sorry," she says pointedly. "My brother's being an idiot."

"You should have seen them when they were younger," Katerina says calmly, standing up and gathering stray dishes off the table. "They were worse than cats and dogs." It's a lie. They've never fought before, not really. Not like this. "We'd best leave them to it, I think. Would you be willing to give me the recipe you used tonight? It's so hard finding something the whole family will eat."

Miri winces. A recipe probably won't end well, especially with Don in the room. She can already imagine a list of possible ingredients: human flesh, poison ivy, two eggs, half an onion, earthworms, a tomato, a pinch of salt… She'd gone over the whole "don't feed my family anything sentient" thing, but she couldn't be too confident about the original recipe, or, for that matter, what they had actually ended up eating. With Nath, Miri has found, it's best not to ask.

"We'll be in the living room," Katerina says pointedly, and Miri feels a rush of gratitude towards her mother. She tries to communicate that to her wordlessly, but ends up just looking somewhat desperate.

Nath has no such communication barrier, as Miri discovers when she looks over to where the drow _had_ been to find that she has ducked under the table, emerged on the other side and preceded Katerina out the door. Her mother gives them one last, unreadable look before following.

* * *

**Three bells on Four of Two of Eleasis in the Year of the Harp.  
** **The World Above.**

It is, Nathcyrl thinks, very dark in the World Above. Caroline had talked about it saying that it was bright, but Nathcyrl can barely see at all. Caroline had also called it colourful, and Nathcyrl doesn't know what that means. Maybe her literary education was simply lacking.

Nathcyrl repositions the strap of her bag, squinting through the darkness. There are thick, appealing shadows off to her left in what looks like an animal housing of some sort, where it's _much_ easier to see. She has to approve of the care they take to make sure their… fat winged creatures… are kept in a decently-lit environment. But that would hardly be a good plan. She's bound to run into humans if she heads straight for their livestock. So instead she heads towards a sort of collection of pillars. They must hold up the ceilings of the World Above, Nathcyrl thinks. There is better light beneath the pillars, and no humans in sight.

As she gets further into the field of pillars (humans could really take some architectural tips from the drow, she thinks; there's simply no _need _for this many load-bearing columns in a well-designed cavern) the light starts to get much better. The haze is going away now, and she can almost see properly. She's beginning to think she's come up in some sort of empty storage or evacuation section of the World Above; there isn't a single temple visible, and even when the pillars and the strange, ragged tarps hung between them thin out she can't see any dwellings. Normally cavern walls are riddled with the private homes of high-ranking priestesses.

She continues onwards for a good while without coming upon anything but the pillars and a few small, feral animals. It's nearly properly _bright_ now, maybe Caroline wasn't wrong after all. She notices what looks like the grounds of one of the very small Houses which exist in the caverns in Middledark in the distance, and is just turning to avoid it when everything turns horribly dark for a moment and the growl of some gigantic creature rumbles through the air.

Nathcyrl shrinks in the shadow of a pillar like she's been taught, trying to figure out where the creature is and what direction it's coming from, but there are no more clues. Gradually she thinks that maybe it's safe now, that the whatever-it-is (maybe a dragon? She's never seen a dragon) has gone away. Just as she starts inching to her feet, something falls on her head. It's very small, and cold, and when she reaches to touch it there's nothing there but a wet spot on her scarf.

She doesn't think anything of it at first; condensation is always dripping from the very tops of the caverns, it's hardly a new experience. But suddenly she's becoming aware of a faint pattering sound all around her, loose and liquid, like the dustfall and pebbles that shake loose before a cave-in… She's heard of small caverns below the Glimmersea collapsing long ago, their inhabitants drowned by floods and their buildings overtaken by Aboleth; everyone knew not to live in a cavern directly beneath a sea, Nathcyrl thought, but maybe the humans don't. After all, they don't seem to know how to place their support columns. This thought does nothing to decrease her panic. All she can think about is the feeling of water filling her lungs, of fighting against strong hands holding her down, of movement in her peripheral vision. Of everything growing faint, of her thoughts muddling from lack of air, her thrashing limbs falling still.

She runs towards the House; maybe there's some entrance to a deeper cavern they can access, and if there isn't it's only right to _warn_ the humans of what's happening, as they don't seem to know. She prays silently for Lolth's protection as she approaches, and knocks politely on the door.

When several moments pass and the moisture falling from the shaking cavern ceiling starts to intensify, she tries again. She _knows_ the inhabitants are home, she can hear them moving and shouting back and forth inside. There's another stark dimming of the light, and this time she's looking up when it happens, a soul-devouring black crack racing across the roof; a second later there's another resounding cracking sound. It sounds like the cavern is about to fall in and she gives up courtesy, pounding frantically on the door.

After what seems like forever—the cavern is well and truly leaking now, water pouring down and starting to form puddles everywhere, the gaps between the chunks of ceiling must be widening, they wouldn't _last_ much longer—the door opens so abruptly that it sends Nathcyrl off-balance and she falls off the back step and into one of the quickly-forming puddles.

The being that opened it doesn't seem to even notice her at first, or be all that concerned about the imminent cave-in; in fact, it holds out a hand and peers up at the ceiling with something approaching delight. Nathcyrl can't help but feel a small amount of despair. Can humans really be _that_ stupid? Because it _is_ a human, now that Nathcyrl has blinked the water out of her eyes she can see the similarities between it and the human slaves kept in the Underdark; the skin like a sickly hobgoblin's, not exactly _pale_ but far from a healthy shade, the towering height… The World Above was so-named for how tall the cavern walls were, Nathcyrl had heard once, and its inhabitants are tall as well.

It has to be a human, because it has the right body type and its ears are round. It certainly looks nothing like Caroline, though; it's much larger, has odd folds in its skin like svirfneblin elders and is a good deal rounder, and _louder_ even though Caroline hadn't been nearly as quiet as she probably should have been. Its hair is unusual too, almost drow-pale. It's a much lighter shade than she's seen in most humans, even the ones with the very light hair that Caroline called blonde because apparently humans had different words for different kinds of hair. She'd always thought that was funny.

Struggling to her feet and shivering—the water spurting from the cavern ceiling was _cold_ and the ground here was soft and formed a kind of mush when it got wet and it was hard to stand up in—Nathcyrl shouts "You have to evacuate! There's a cave-in!"

The human blinks in alarm, and Nathcyrl sighs in relief (_finally_ they understand) before almost screaming in frustration as the human looks around them instead of up, and then leans down with a friendly smile and says something in an entirely unintelligible tongue.

Caroline must have been a genius by the standards of her race; this human doesn't even speak _Common_, for Lolth's sake!

"Cave-in," Nathcyrl repeats. "Bad. Drown."

The human squats down to her eye-level and says something in its strange, soft language. The closest thing to it Nathcyrl's ever heard is Elven.

She nearly wants to cry.

"The cavern," she says, pointing up towards the ceiling before miming a rock-fall with her fingers, "is collapsing! You'll die if you don't evacuate!"

The human nods, smiling uncertainly, and there's a kind of warm pity in its eyes. She says something placating, indicating the interior of the House with an inclined head, and holds a hand out to Nathcyrl. It's not the abject terror and instant evacuation that Nathcyrl was hoping for but then again, this is where the humans are from. Maybe there is some sort of safety inside.

She's relieved once she's ushered into the warm, dry House. It's incredibly difficult to see, the lighting is horrible, but it's reassuringly busy and well-organised. Maybe the humans _aren't_ too stupid to evacuate a collapsing cavern. This actually seems to be a location specifically designed for the purpose, a sort of central gathering area. There are many more humans seated in groups in a sort of waiting area, in an adjoining room. She's come in through a sort of servants' entrance or delivery door; wherever it is, they're all hard at work busily preparing provisions, and there looks to be more than enough here to keep a few dozen humans alive on lean rations for a manner of days, long enough to reach another cavern in a well-organised tunnel system. Nathcyrl lets herself relax a bit.

They don't seem to be in the process of leaving yet, but they also don't seem too worried and she really doesn't know anything about the World Above so she's forced to trust their judgement, however much she hates it. She supposes, belatedly, that she should be grateful they let her in at all. Humans apparently don't like drow very much. She hopes they're not going to eat her.

She would be reassured by the fact that the pale-haired human hands her a small, warm, soft loaf, presumably to eat, but she knows she's small even for her age. There wouldn't be enough of her, for all of these humans. Maybe they just want to wait until she's bigger.

She's unlikely to get any bigger, though; her mother is only barely taller than her. So maybe she's safe regardless.

She picks at the loaf. She doesn't know what it's made of, but whatever it is melts on her tongue in a pleasing way, although it doesn't have much in the way of flavour. She assumes it's meant to cool and harden to be eaten later, during the evacuation; things that are difficult to chew give an illusion of being more filling than they are, Nathcyrl knows.

There are several exclamations of what sounds like alarm and even anger, with many of the humans gesturing at her; she supposes it's natural to object to an additional mouth to feed in a last-minute evacuation but really, it's not as if she takes up much space. Anyway, she's come to _warn_ them.

The darkest parts of the kitchen are the warmest, Nathcyrl finds, which is the opposite of how things worked at home. She finds a place to sit that's out of the way and watches the humans bustle about preparing food. Several times one or two of them will open a door across from her and go down it for a few moments. Nathcyrl can only assume they're coordinating with other evacuating groups. They all seem relaxed and cheerful, and after a few hours the cracking sounds grow fainter; more distant, and less frequent. The warm, soft loaf is more satisfying than she expected, largely because now that she's here surrounded by smells that are strange and alien but undeniably _food_ she's realised she was much hungrier than she'd thought.

She's warm, and fed, and feels safer than she's been in a long time even though she's surrounded by humans and they or may not be planning to eat her. Eventually she curls up in her nice warm corner and drifts into a trance.

She blinks, hours later or what feels like hours, feeling blurry and exhausted; she hadn't realised how tired she was until now, and for a moment she panics because it's been hours and she still hasn't evacuated but she's so _tired._ Anyway there's no more sound of water outside and the echoing cracks have stopped.

It's hard to see what's going on because all of the shouting humans—they all look male, she thinks blearily—are holding torches, strange little staffs with flickering darkness on top that the slaves often kept in their quarters, and it hurts trying to look at them. But she can see that there's a lot of them, and the one in front who's bigger than the others keeps pointing at _her_ and saying something angry in the harsh, guttural language of humans.

The roundish one from before, who had brought Nathcyrl inside away from the cave-in, is standing between the two, poking its—her—finger into the male's chest. She's not as loud now as she was before but her voice sounds very determined. She doesn't sound scared at all.

The strange lighting and the ache in her head and how _tired_ she is make Nathcyrl whimper quietly. She squeezes her eyes shut, and a few moments later the round human woman is patting her shoulder and pulling a rough material up over her head. It helps to block the strange, frightening patterns of light, and Nathcyrl slips back into her trance while the humans argue in low voices in the corner.

She leaves the next morning, when she wakes up with some sort of produce sack pulled over her head like a blanket and realises how close she came to death the night before, wondering at why the round human would go through the trouble of helping her. Whatever she'd hoped to gain from it, Nathcyrl will have to disappoint her. She has no intention of being trapped here as some kind of pet.

She successfully slips down from the barrels of some sort of root or rocks that she'd been sleeping on, tiptoeing lightly across the wooden floorboards. She feels extremely satisfied with herself until she realises she can't reach the bolt on the door. She jumps as high as she can, but can't even touch the tarnished metal of the bolt, let alone move the thing.

She looks around for a box or something she can stand on to reach the latch, but the only things that seem big enough are the large barrels, and the closest she gets to moving one of them is a few terrifying moments while the barrel threatens to tip over.

She's trying to reach the bolt standing on top of a few platters covered in marks from kitchen knives—she can't imagine they _use _them anymore—when the round human comes into the room. Nathcyrl freezes.

The human smiles and says something in her strange language. She doesn't seem angry, Nathcyrl thinks, but she knows that people and things are very often not what they seem. The human begins collecting more of those soft loaves into a small bag, and some of what looks like cooked meats. Nathcyrl isn't sure what she's going to have her do; maybe feed the livestock for her. At home, they always used the more disposable slaves for that, just in case.

The round human kneels down in front of her and gives her the bag. She says something Nathcyrl doesn't understand, sounding softer than the human language usually does, and presses her lips to her forehead.

She stands and undoes the latch on the door, the smile still on her face, but it seems sad now and Nathcyrl doesn't understand. She's going to let her go free? She doesn't have the faintest idea why the human would do something like that. Maybe she's simply too small to be of any use to the humans.

The round human says something as she's about to leave, and she turns back to face her. The human points at her own chest, and says "Helen". It must be her name.

Nathcyrl copies the motion and says her own name.

Helen pats her on the shoulder, and Nathcyrl thinks for a moment she's going to lean down to kiss her forehead again. When she doesn't, Nathcyrl decides to wrap her arms around her waist. Caroline used to hug her, when she was sad. It felt nice.

When she lets go of Helen and turns to leave once more, she hears Helen speak again. "_Goodbye, Nathcyrl. Good luck._" She supposes it's a farewell of some sort. She doesn't turn around.

* * *

**Midnight on the second day of the third week of Summertide, in the Year of the Worm.  
****The Thatcher House in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

_The poor little thing._

Katerina had tried, at first, to make some sort of conversation with her guest, but the girl had so little experience in human niceties it was traumatic for all involved. And neither of them had exactly been engaged, besides.

She'd given her a cup of tea, of course, because she wouldn't have felt right otherwise. The girl is clearly revolted by it but too polite to say so; at least it gives her something to do with her hands. Katerina has noticed her tendency to fidget with nothing to do—a warm cup of something soothing is a much more pleasant alternative to shredding the pillows, and the problem of how to dispose of her tea as subtly as possible is, hopefully, distracting her from the shouting match going on in the kitchen.

"_Call her a monster one more time!"_

Nath starts violently at Miri's shout, helpfully spilling some of her tea. Her expression twists Kat's heart. It always hurt when the ones you loved were fighting, of course, but this goes beyond discomfort and into bone-deep misery. The walls here are good and solid, but not _that _thick; every time Nath's name is mentioned, the sick look on her face gets a little worse.

_Where in the world did my little girl find you, I wonder._

She really does wish the strange little creature would drink her tea. Kat hasn't seen much of her; she has a way of being overlooked when she wants to be, and spends so much time wearing that oversized cloak that it's been almost impossible to get a good look at her at all. But she's seen enough to recognize the Look of her. She wonders whether anyone has ever really taken care of the poor thing; there's a sort of wild-animal fear in those big red eyes that has never quite faded.

"SHE IS NOT A PET, MIRIA!"

And there it is. Nath doesn't startle at Don's voice; she _trembles._ Very slightly, but it's there. She suddenly becomes very still and very small, as if trying to avoid a blow that has to land somewhere and will strike at the first thing that catches its eye. _A whipped dog._ Years ago, back when Miria had been young, a little grey mutt with a very similar look would sometimes come to them for food. She knows when a little thing had been made to fear.

"No, Nath is _not_ a pet, funnily enough, she's a person, and the last time I heard someone call a sentient being a pet it was a drow priestess talking about _me_—"

Kat winces before the bowl even breaks.

"AND YOU WANT ME TO TRUST HER! _Are you that blind, Miri?_ Drow are _demons! _They're one step away from succubi and you refuse to believe there's even the _slightest chance _that you're being controlled by this thing?"

Miria's response is low and intense, and for several minutes the shouting fades out. The silence is broken when:

"YOU LED A KILLER TO MY CHILDREN!"

"She did what she had to do! Would you trust her more if she'd left me—"

"In a situation you wouldn't have _been_ in if it wasn't for her!"

"I knew what I was getting into, I _chose_ to go with her—"

"After one night in some town you don't even remember, and _you don't think that's suspicious?_"

"_Don't you dare!"_

"No, you know what? You're a grown woman! Make your own terrible decisions, but you sleep with some Dark Mage you met in a seedy tavern—"

"I'm a Bard, Don, I spend_ most of my life_ in seedy taverns!_"_

"That's the kind of thing—you make a notch on your bedpost and forget it, you don't _bring them home to your family!"_

And that's a plate gone. While Miri launches into a blistering tirade against her brother, Katerina glances up into the loft and finds two pairs of wide, dark eyes peering down at her. Lynn's voice calls them quietly. The first pair of eyes—Alice—nods and disappears. The second is more reluctant; Carter only retreats, slowly, after glancing back at his frightened sister.

"...show her the kind of family Nath has never _had_, because I thought you were better than this! I _promised_ her you would give her a fair chance, I _trusted _you!"

"To what, let a demon—a _demon_, Miri, it's what she is, I don't care if you like it or not!—you want me to let a demon run loose around my family and not ask any questions? That's not a _betrayal of trust,_ that's protecting the people I love!"

"I at least trusted you not to _throw me out of my own house!"_

"_You_ are welcome to stay as long as you like, but I don't want that thing—YES, I SAID THING! Seven _hells,_ Miria, can you imagine what this is doing to the kids? They're at a very impressionable age, and I don't want them growing up to—!"

There's abrupt silence. This time, it's not broken by a shout, and Katerina has to strain her ears to hear her daughter.

"To be like me."

Silence. It's more damning than anything Don has said.

After a long pause, faint footsteps cross the kitchen. There's a pause, and then the door opens. Miri no longer looks capable of shouting. If Kat is honest with herself, Miri doesn't look capable of much of anything. She just looks tired.

She meets Nath's eyes and gives a shaky smile; opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. Nath gives a tiny nod as if they'd had an entire conversation and sets her tea gratefully aside, standing silently and moving to Miri's side. She stares determinedly at the floor, flashing brief, nervous glances up at Miri before dropping her eyes again and following meekly in her wake.

Don opens the door for them. He doesn't speak, and Miri doesn't look at him. But when he tries to close the door after them, she suddenly turns and stops him. She looks up, into his face, and her eyes are sad.

"Don't do this to me," she says quietly. "I wouldn't make you choose between me and Lynn."

"Lynn isn't a demon," he says.

Her eyes flash again, but she turns away and leaves without another word.

* * *

**Evening on the eighth day of the second week of the Drawing Down in the Year of the Harp.  
** **A small town outside of Silverymoon.**

The area is one of those fringe villages which always seem to make a rough ring around a major city—the kind everyone passes through but nobody really remembers unless there's a dragon lighting it on fire.

As with most of these sorts of villages, its inhabitants are decently tolerant. The sole tavern has a sign at the door saying "BLAK MAJIK PROHIBTID" and a rough drawing of a dagger, dripping with what is probably meant to be poison, is crossed through with red paint. Miri pats it fondly as they step inside.

It's just the two of them, for now; Allerod had veered off as soon as they entered the vaguely-central portion of the village, to see about supplies. Rennic has since slunk off on his own business. Miri doesn't much care where he's going, or frankly if he ever comes back. She hasn't quite been with the party for a month yet, but not-quite-a-month is more than enough time to decide she is much more comfortable where Rennic is not.

She takes a deep breath as the bustle and noise of a slightly substandard tavern reaches them, and gives a happy sigh.

"Mmm… Home."

It's rather late in the evening, and those in the tavern are the regulars; the men without wives, or the men with wives who wish they were without. Those who are there are, with hardly any exception, loud and boisterous, drinking beer of which the quality depends heavily on how much the barmaid likes them, and laughing amongst themselves.

The men in the bar are of solid stock, and the tankards between the lot of them amount to an admirably formidable number. Miri is mildly impressed to note that the sum of the drinks between them is nowhere near matching the small mountain of tankards around, in front of and threatening to tower _over _a nearly catatonic dwarf in the corner, building in an almost comical pile that the bartender seems hesitant move while their owner-of-sorts is still in the area. The dwarf himself appears to be so soaked with alcohol that he's neither coherent nor fully conscious, and entirely unaware of his surroundings. Someone could probably conjure a demon directly in front of the drunken Cleric before he realised there was _anything_ noteworthy in the area, if he noticed even then. Miri makes an executive decision not to voice this opinion, for fear of giving Nath ideas.

Nath is wearing a heavy cloak and hood. It's mostly dark blue, but some tears have been patched with bright pink fabric. Miri gives her a half worried, half exasperated look. "You're about as conspicuous as it's possible to be, you know that, right?"

"And if I took off the cloak?" Nath says innocently.

Miri considers it, and concedes, "You would… probably start a riot. Although it'd probably attract less notice." She grins playfully. "Really, Nath, you look like Evil Incarnate." Or Evil Incarnate's five-year-old daughter, at least.

"How sweet of you to say!" Nath says, and Miri can't tell if it's sarcasm or honest sincerity.

"Right." Deciding to do her best not to think about it, Miri scans the room, trying to get a feel for the place. This kind of crowd could go either way; sometimes they appreciated a bard for a break in the monotony, and sometimes they couldn't care less what went on around them as long as they got their next round. She has a good feeling about this one, though. "Well, our money's as good as anyone's, so I doubt they'll care if you _are_ Evil Incarnate tonight…" She catches a barmaid's eye from across the room and nods toward a free table along the wall. "Let's sit down, at least."

As they edge into their seats, Nath jumps as a sudden roar erupts from the island of tankards. At first it just sounds like a wordless yell; it's only when Miri notices the dwarf waving around his most recent tankard that she realises he's calling for more ale.

The bar goes quiet as the patrons look nervously around at the filthy, half-conscious dwarf. The bartender reaches under the counter and pours out a pre-mixed measure of ale so watered down there's barely anything alcoholic left, passing the two tankards along to the deeply-disturbed barmaid whose attention Miri had been trying to grab. She slides them gingerly in front of the dwarf's nose; he frowns irritably at the liquid inside as if wondering what it is and why it's bothering him. After a few tense moments he brightens and seems to remember, pouring half the first tankard down his gullet and slumping back down onto the table. The tension in the tavern eases immediately, which tells Miri a great deal about what happens when this particular dwarf isn't satisfied with his drink.

She gives an affectionate sigh. "Drunks are so cute."

Nath glares at her. She's not entirely sure how she can tell, as her companion's hood is still up and hiding her face, but Miri is absolutely certain that Nath is glaring at her. She can almost feel the drow's eyes burning holes in her sleeve.

"What?" she says defensively, unaffected by the blatant death wish. "They tip well. Can never tell what they're handing over. I got twenty gold pieces and a vole-repelling amulet once. Good crowd."

"..._cute,"_ Nath says darkly.

Miri is fighting a losing battle not to smirk. "Puppies," she says ruthlessly. "Kittens. Baby bunnies. Little girls wearing wreaths of daisies…"

"Are those things poisonous?" Nath asks hopefully.

By some miracle, the barmaid doesn't hear her as she picks her way gingerly around the near-solid miasma of alcohol surrounding the dwarven cleric and leans against Miri's chair with a sigh of relief.

"Sorry about that," she says with false airiness. "What can I get you two?"

"If they aren't poisonous, are the flowers wilted at least? Daisies _are_ flowers, right?" Nath offers as a compromise. "I used to wear wilted flowers in my hair, when I was younger."

Either the barmaid doesn't speak Elven or she's been a barmaid for a long time, because she doesn't so much as look askance at Nath.

"We'll have what he's having," Miri says evenly with a nod at the weaving cleric. "Only slightly less of it."

"And a little less water, I should think," the barmaid says with a wink. "Sure thing."

As she walks away, Nath prods Miri's shoulder.

"I got us ale," Miri says. "Like his."

Nath looks over at the dwarf's drink, and shudders dramatically.

"Oh, stop it! It's good," she promises. "Well. His isn't. Ours will be."

Nath doesn't look particularly convinced. "Certainly," she says.

The barmaid reappears holding two mugs, which she sets down on their table with a slightly strained grin. They're solid wood with a metal rim and handle, and house a deep amber liquid of far better quality than what's being served to the dwarf.

Nath glares at the mug in front of her for a moment before taking a sip. She spits the ale out within barely a second, coughing as if it'd gotten into her lungs. "That is disgusting," she says. "What is it made with, _grains_? What happened to death cap mushrooms?"

"Death cap… actually, never mind," Miri says hastily. "Try not to insult the ale, all right? I'm trying to get them to let me perform later."

Nath makes a sound in the back of her throat and pushes the mug away from her. "Clangeddin Silverbeard," she mutters.

The dwarf looks up, glancing around as if hearing something he feels like he should be paying attention to. He shrugs after a moment and goes back to his ale.

"What?" says Miri. If Nath doesn't know what ale is _made_ of, there's no way she knows a brand by taste.

Nath sighs but seems grateful for an excuse to sit back and put her tankard down as far away as possible. "The _dwarf,_ dear."

"Oh," says Miri. "Wait. You _know_ him? I mean, forgive me, but—"

A collection of empty tankards at the dwarf's table is knocked to the floor by an errant hand. When the clattering finally stops, Miri pointedly finishes "—he doesn't really seem like your type."

Nath gives her the most disgusted look she has ever seen. "I don't know _him_. I know his god. _Of_ his god. Clangeddin Silverbeard, dwarven god of battle. _Ridiculously_ honourable." She spares another look for the Cleric, huffs judgmentally and takes an extremely superior sip of ale.

She promptly gags and splutters, which Miri feels kind of bad for laughing at.

"You know," she muses, only half joking. "If you ever wanted a few new converts to L—to your goddess," she corrects herself for the sake of those within earshot, "you could just find a few more like him."

Nath turns very slowly to stare at her. "What," she says flatly. The dwarf suddenly stirs, shouting something about blasphemy and waving his mug around until he shatters it against his table, as well as shattering the edge of the table against the mug.

Miri, ignoring this, frowns. "I mean it! ...what?" She leans the tiniest bit away from the suddenly murderous-looking Nath, nervous. "I was just..." She pales slightly. "I meant—no,get a few like him representing all the _other_ gods, and she'll be the only respectable one left. Sorry."

"Consider your apology accepted," Nath says, eyes narrowed. "For a moment I was afraid you had lost your mind."

Miri takes this as the threat it almost certainly is, and shifts uncomfortably. The dwarf starts yelling again, and she shifts back.

"Who keeps spoutin' all this blasphemy? I can hear ye, by Clangeddin's gleamin' beard don't think I can't!" he shouts, filled with a righteous fury unparalleled by even the most devoted paladin. At least, as far as Miri can tell. The slurring makes it difficult to follow.

"I should take off my hood," Nath says brightly, adding, not particularly believably, "In the spirit of honesty," at the sharp look Miri sends her.

Miri sighs, reassured by Nath's sudden change in topic that her death isn't as imminent as she'd worried a minute ago. "Feel free," she says. "But don't kill him, okay? He's drunk. And I'd still kind of like a job tonight."

Nath waves a hand that Miri hopes means "I won't" as she stands, removing her hood. Nobody notices at first, and Nath takes the opportunity to run quick fingers through her hair, tossing it loosely over the thin scarf which covers her ears. She presses a quick kiss to Miri's forehead and strokes her hair once, which the half-elf thinks means her clerical missteps have been forgiven.

The dwarf seems to have forgotten about the ridiculously large weapon leaning against the bar-a sort of terrifying cross between a warhammer and a battleaxe-for which Miri is exceedingly grateful. He bolts up to his feet, the sudden wash of incoherent rage lending him something resembling stability. He manages to stumble, crash, and execute a surprisingly graceful pirouette into their table. Miri's not entirely certain, but she thinks Nath may have nudged her tankard into the cleric's path just before he crashed into it. The dwarf draws himself up and squints at Nath.

The tavern seems to hold its breath, staring at the two and waiting for the god-level brawl that seems moments from breaking out; even the shocked gasps and whispers that there's a drow in the tavern are muted as the patrons brace themselves.

"Can I to be helping you?" Nath asks in polite Goblin. Miri's head thuds against the table.

"'Scuse me," the dwarf says after a second, "but did any of ye hear a goblin callin' me mother fat?"

Having controlled her sudden, violent fit of shrieking laughter by half-drowning herself in her tankard, Miri looks up and manages to cough "Nope. No goblins over here."

Nath looks mildly confused, so Miri translates the question. The drow says something completely unintelligible and vaguely reminiscent of Dwarven, and the dwarf answers in something slightly more reminiscent of it.

Miri stands up, walks over to the neighbouring table, removes their pitcher of ale and sits back down with it. The men at the other table don't protest.

She sits down, carefully refills her drink, and drains the tankard. Topping it up again, she takes a deep, fortifying breath.

"I'm feeling left out," she calls, interrupting something that judging by the dwarf's enthusiastic gestures is the account of either a great battle or a truly terrible play. "What are you two talking about?"

Nath spares her an extremely grateful look as the Cleric faces her happily; the half turn is, in his condition, a truly impressive feat of co-ordination. She doesn't know whether to be impressed or not that, despite the fact that she sincerely doubts he can see straight, he manages to make the shift to Common mid-sentence.

"—in a brothel, when it was actually a _cat!_" he finishes, falling against the table to roar with laughter. Without missing a beat or straightening up, he continues "Mayhap we should go travellin' together then, eh?"

"Wait, what?" Miri cannot for the life of her determine how he has managed to make that leap of logic, but her objections are drowned out by the spontaneous cheer that has arisen from all around the tavern at the thought of having him _gone._ Nath shoots a poisonous glare from one grinning face to another, which does nothing to dampen their enthusiasm. This does not bode well.

"What did you _do_?" she hisses.

"Apparently I invited him to come with us," Miri whispers back, feeling a bit ill.

"Should I kill him? I can kill him."

"No," Miri says reflexively. Then, watching the dwarf attempt to dance with his axe-maul and knocking over three tables in the process, reconsiders. "Well, not yet. With any luck by tomorrow he won't even remember, but either way we should be able to just leave without him noticing, he'll be passed out."

"We should leave tonight!" the dwarf calls. "No night like tonight, the last cutthroat that tried to kill me said! Then I put me axe in his skull," he adds, chortling. "Oh, he was a good lad. Cracked me right up almost as much as I cracked his skull when he reached for my purse!"

Well. If he and Nath managed not to kill each other, they might actually get along.

"He wants to leave tonight," Miri informs Nath glumly. Lifting her voice and switching to Common, she calls, "We can't. We need supplies. We won't leave until sunr—sunset. Until sunset tomorrow." She has no intention of _actually_ inviting this person along.

"Supplies have been taken care of," someone says, in Elven, from the doorway. "We can leave as soon as you've finished your drinks."

"I hate you," says Nath.

Rennic snorts, near-whiteless eyes rolling in exasperation. "Such manners from the younger generation, these days," he says in Common. "So grateful for their upbringing."

"A language that I can _speak_, if you don't mind," says Nath, over the nervous laughter of the patrons of the tavern.

Rennic shoots something back in Undercommon or Drow.

"Evil," Nath replies in Elven.

"Just to make an old man's life harder," he replies. "Next thing I know, you'll tell me to start following the law."

"No," Miri says in a Goblin monotone. "Please. Anything but that."

Nath smothers a giggle and turns back to Rennic with a serious expression, replying in her native language.

"Oy!" the dwarf says, somehow managing to pick Goblin out of the hectic mix of languages, "I thought ye lot said ye _didn't_ hear a goblin callin' me mother fat."

Rennic cuts in smoothly. "I hear you're looking to join our party?" He pointedly ignores Miri's frantic throat-slashing gestures behind the dwarf's back.

"You're gods-damned right I am, thank ye for offerin'!"

"I'm Rennic," he says, "and this is Miria and Nathcyrl. We have another party member, but no Clerics. You'd come in useful for sure."

"Me name's Kadek," the dwarf says. "When can we leave?"

Miri gives her empty mug a pained look.

* * *

**Midnight on the second day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Evening Star Inn in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

Nath fidgets with her robe as they walk, and she doesn't raise her eyes. "I," she starts, breath visible in the cold air, and stops. "I'm sorry," she manages, and it's so quiet Miri can barely hear her. A human wouldn't be able to.

There was a time when Miri would have been incapable of understanding what Nath could possibly be apologising for. Now, she just sighs. "Don't apologise, Nath," she pleads. "_Please_. It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong." When there's no reply, she looks back at the drow and frowns slightly. "_Nath_," she says, more insistent this time. "My brother's an idiot. Everyone else in my family knows better—"

"But they're afraid of me," Nath mutters miserably.

"Carter isn't," Miri points out.

"Carter thinks I'm a storybook character."

"He's eleven years old. He thinks _he's_ a storybook character." She puts an arm around a stiff Nath, takes her hand and rubs a reassuring thumb over the backs of her fingers. "Everything he knows about the world he knows from stories. He _wants_ to learn about you. And Alice thinks you're pretty, for the record."

Nath just _stares_.

Miri's lips twitch. "You _are_ pretty," she teases. "Alice is always nervous around strangers. I was impressed that she warmed up to you so quickly, actually. And my mother doesn't care _what_ you are, I think she's just glad I didn't bring home some hulking fighter who can't tell two sides of a book apart." She looks down at Nath and smiles. "They liked you."

Nath makes an incredulous noise and pulls up her hood as they reach the tavern they're staying at. The town is too small for there to be any underworld taverns where a drow wouldn't look too out of place. On the positive end of that, the _quality_ of the place is outstanding. The beds are even _covered_.

As they approach the door, Miri pulls Nath aside, just out of the way outside a warm, inviting window.

"Nath," she says, quiet and serious, pulling the hood away from her face. "Look at me?"

The Mage raises an eyebrow.

Miri stares at her for a long moment before pressing a soft kiss onto her forehead. "I'm sorry," she says, fiddling with Nath's fingers. "I didn't realise it would go that badly, but I should have been more careful. I never meant to put you in the middle of that. Are you all right?"

Nath blinks, the lights reflecting in her eyes. It's amazing, how quickly Miri has gotten used to those eyes. Looking at Nath now, she looks _alien_ and uncomprehending. It's not exactly like she can blame her family for their initial reactions. Just the ones that came later.

"Of course," says Nath.

Miri knows her too well to believe her. Releasing Nath's hand in favor of brushing the back of her fingers over her cheek, she says quietly, "You are absolutely beautiful in every way, and if my brother can't see that he can go to hell, understand?"

"Which one?"

She can't help but smile at the genuine curiosity. "I'll let you pick," she says, kissing her quickly. "Come on. It's late and I think it's going to rain."

Nath shudders.

Miri breathes a sigh of relief when they step through the doors. It's the best possible time to be in a tavern; not so late that exhaustion has become tangible and the only ones still up are the depressed and rejected or the brooding and dangerous, but late enough that the rowdier party crowd has dispersed somewhat and those that remain have split into smaller groups and are keeping each other entertained. Her fingers itch for her lute; an atmosphere like this is almost physically painful to pass up. She briefly considers stopping to greet Kadek, their adventuring party's dwarven Cleric. He's exactly where they'd left him earlier but considerably more drunk, and she decides against saying hello when they pass him and overhear the incredibly serious debate he is apparently holding with his empty tankard.

"There's no way the bugger could have survived shooting himself in the head with a crossbow! ...because I saw it happen, ye little—don' take that tone o' voice with me, there's a _difference_!"

Nath and Miri exchange another look, and immediately turn and go up the stairs. Miri finds the third door on the right and raps on it.

"Al! Open up!"

Al cracks open the door, squinting tiredly. "Aren't you supposed to be at home?"

"Yep. That's why we came back." Miri squeezes through the crack in the door and makes short work of Allerod's half-unpacked belongings, of which there are many (Whatever her mother might say, she is excellent at making things fit into packs with a minimal amount of organisation). Al is their Ranger, and strongly believes that preparation is the most important task to be undertaken in any quest. So long as he's the one carrying the extra supplies, Miri is fine with it. She hands him his bag and opens the door for him with a pleasant smile. "Thanks for the room."

Al puts a hand to his forehead. "You know what, I don't want to know." He sighs. "Now, why can't you get your _own_ room?"

"We just did," Miri points out. "You can go sleep with Rennic. No point in wasting money." Allerod is the only member of the party who, for reasons best known to himself, can stand being in the same room as Rennic. Rennic is their Rogue, and he's a bastard, but good enough at his job Nath hasn't gotten around to killing and replacing him yet. The two despise each other, but he's known her since before Miri was born, so it's a comfortable sort of hatred. Miri hasn't known him long enough for it to be comfortable, and she doesn't want to, either.

"There's only one _bed—_"

"Kills two orcs with a single arrow," says Nath. "You won't have to go to a whorehouse later."

"_Nath_!"

Before Allerod has a chance to recover, Miri pulls a coin out of her pocket and tosses it at him. He nearly fumbles the catch, and she takes the chance to sling the pack over his shoulder. "There's a coin, flip it, best two out of three wins. Good night, Al!" The door closes in his face before he has a chance to realise that he's on the wrong side of it.

* * *

**Evening on the ninth day of the first week of the Claw of Winter in the Year of the Worm.  
** **Outside of Cedarspoke in the Gulthmere Forest.**

Miri hums softly, lost in her own little world. A burst of noise, a mumbled sigh that says_ that's not right_, and a tiny twist of the peg.

Repeat. And again, closer. And again.

Finally the sound is how she wants it, and she gives a happy smile. Moves to the next string.

And when she's done with that one, she comes back to the first to fix it. She loves tuning her lute; it's a wonderfully peaceful activity, mindless in the glorious way where one is lost fully in the moment. It's almost intimate, a mindlessness she doesn't want to end.

And then she's pulled out of it with a start.

"Why do we have to pack so _much_?" Nath asks, annoyed. "We can't possibly carry this all without our speed suffering for it."

"It's an uncertain trail," Allerod says calmly, adjusting the contents of his own pack. Miri turns her attention back to the second string.

"You're a Ranger," Nath snaps. "You should be able to take us right through if you're so 'in tune with nature'."

"Nature," he says evenly, "follows her own course. I simply know how to read it better than some."

There. Two strings done.

Nath is unimpressed. "I still think these packs are too heavy, and there's no point in taking them."

"Now you're just acting like a child," the Ranger retorts, an irked tone creeping around the edges of his voice.

"I am not a child!"

Miri dares a simple chord, realises instantly that the tuning is nowhere near as complete as she thought it had been, and goes back to work on that pesky first string.

"You're not even seventy-six, Nathcyrl," he says pointedly, demonstrating a surprising lack of trouble with Drow pronunciation.

_TWANG._

"OW!"

Miri snatches her hand back, trying to shake out the sting of a snapped wire. "_Ow!_" she hisses again, wincing as she examines the raw stripe across the back of her hand. "You're _seventy-five?_ Ow. Ow ow ow... What in the Ninth plane of _Hell,_ Nath?"

"Yes..." says Nath slowly. "Why?" She looks at Miri's hand. "Here, may I?"

Miri ignores the offer, leaning instinctively away. "Nath," she says somewhat desperately, "please tell me drow age faster than surface elves. Or mature faster. Or _something!"_

"You _do_ know we aren't elves, dear, I've _told_ you that before." A sort of irritated affection. "And I should think by, oh, at least six of your human months, yes."

A deep, thoughtful voice chimes in at that point—well, not so much chimes as rumbles. "Ye lot look a bit like elves. Sound like 'em too," Kadek points out. "Nae only that, but ye all bleed an' occasionally scream like the little buggers! Dinnae see why ye cannae be compared to elves."

"Generally," says Nath, "when two races have different Planes of origin, they aren't considered to be kindred, Kadek."

"Bleed, and scream!" the dwarf insists. "Bleed _and _scream!"

"_Nath_," Miri snaps, reclaiming her attention. "_Seventy-five?"_

A confused sort of defensiveness: "What?"

"'What?'" Miri splutters incredulously. "_What_... Nath-!" She pauses for a second, running numbers in her head, and her eyes widen in dismay. "Nath, you're barely _thirteen_ by human standards! You're a _child!"_

"_Human_ standards," says Nath, "are quite different than those of the drow, you will find. Human standards aren't what they were a century ago, and are far from constant in various environments even now."

Miri's mouth opens and closes several times before she gives up. Glaring at Allerod for no particular reason, she stands and hauls Nath to her feet, half-dragging the tiny drow (and she really is _tiny,_ she should have _realised_...) a good distance from the others.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she hisses furiously. "What were you _thinking?"_

"I was thinking that I _am_, in fact, capable of making my own decisions," says Nath, just as intensely.

"No," Miri snaps. "No, Nath, you're _not_, alright? You're not... old enough to know what... what you're getting into, it's taking advantage, and if I'd known I would never, _ever _have—"

"I'm older than _you_."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." Miri paces, refusing to look at her. "There are ages of consent for a _reason_, you're not... Look, Nath, you're plenty mature, all right, it's not an insult, but you just... don't have the life experience to make those kinds of decisions, and I'm not going to stick around and live the next twenty years as—some sort of—_gah!_—because you think that just because we're different species that makes this _okay!"_

"You don't think," Nath says, very, _very_ carefully, like she's walking on hot coals, "that I have the _life experience_." She closes her eyes, and a small smile plays on her lips. There's no humour in it. "You know _nothing about me_. I would suggest, dear, that you be more well-informed than you currently are before you make such an assumption." It's a tranquil sort of fury, and it's terrifying.

For once in her life, Miri's self-preservation instinct kicks in. She takes a moment to collect her thoughts, and when she speaks again the anger is gone. She sounds tired, if anything. "You _shouldn't_ have the life experience," she sighs. "If you do, that's all the more reason this is wrong. You're a child, Nath, you're allowed to act like one. But you're not an adult, and I can't..." She struggles with the words for a moment, then shakes her head and turns away, unsure of what to do now.

"No, I'm not."

Miri half-glances back around, determinedly avoiding eye contact. "What?"

"I'm not a child, and I haven't been one since _well_ before you were born. Can't I be treated like an adult then?"

Miri's only concession to the non-violent turn the conversation has taken is to look directly at Nath, albeit almost over her shoulder. "Maybe it would be better," she says slowly, "if I just left."

"...Do you want to?"

There's a pause as Miri lets out a long sigh, kicking viciously at an innocent tree root. "No," she finally says. "No, I don't, which is why I should, before I..." She trails off sharply, crossing her arms and holding them tightly to her stomach.

"Before you _what_?"

She looks up, miserable. "Before I start _caring _any more! I barely know you, I don't know _anything_ about you, I don't even know what you people are doing out here, and I should leave now before things get any more complicated." She scuffs halfheartedly at the root. "Except I don't want to. And it's your fault for making me care."

There's a long silence. Miri, as a silent afterthought, flexes her hand, which is starting to bruise along the thin lash where her string had snapped.

"I'm going to bed," she says quietly.

If Nath follows her, she doesn't know; she doesn't dare look back.

* * *

**Midnight on the ninth day of the first week of the Claw of Winter in the Year of the Worm.  
** **Outside of Cedarspoke in the Gulthmere Forest.**

Blankets rustle near her head. The lack of any other sound identifies the source as either Nath or the Revenge of the Sentient Bedrolls, and at the moment Miri isn't certain which one is more likely to spell her doom.

"Nath," she says tiredly, keeping the blanket pulled up over her head. "Just... no. What do you want?"

There's a pause. "My name means 'destruction's ally'."

She can't help it. She takes the bait.

"What?"

"You said you didn't know anything about me. Now you do." It's the sort of reply which suggests this should have been obvious. "Your turn."

Miri takes enough time to acknowledge that this is probably a terrible idea before pulling the blanket away from her face. "My turn?"

"I don't know anything about you, either."

Another pause.

"My last name is Scuttleleaf, after my father. Everyone else in my family goes by Thatcher, they live in Freedale." She hesitates, then props herself up on one elbow. "Your turn, then."

"My surname is Auvryren. I'm from near the Glimmersea, if that means anything to you."

She's interested in spite of herself. "No, where is that?"

"About thirty kilometres beneath the Sea of Fallen Stars. My home cavern is near Chondath."

An expectant pause.

"Ah... my favorite colour is green?"

Nath tilts her head. "I have absolutely no idea what that means."

"I think it comes with the elven blood," Miri confesses.

Nath nods politely, if cluelessly, and gives a reply equally trivial, and they continue on with that for a while. Sometimes it's about themselves, but sometimes it's about their cultures: "That flower, over there. Do you see it? That's deadly nightshade. It's poisonous to humans."

"We call it hyoscyameae, and it makes a _wonderful_ tea."

There's a reason their races clash so horribly, and the two are starting to realise it might be at least partially biological.

"I worship Oghma."

"I pray to Ao occasionally."

Sometimes the statements are just little things like these, footnotes to their lives, nothing that really matters, and sometimes they aren't.

"When I was first in a rainstorm," says Nath, "I... I thought the sky was falling." It's an embarrassed confession.

Miri manages not to smile. "I'm terrified of snakes," she says, and expects something like a heretofore unannounced arachnophobia carefully hidden from friends and relatives and goddess, or something that's stereotypical of an Underdark inhabitant. Maybe she's scared of kittens.

The reply she gives, though, is somewhat worrying.

"Animals hate me with a passion."

"I'm sure they don't _hate_ you."

"They do, I swear. They run away from me, and if they _have_ to stay around me, they die."

"Everything _dies_, Nath. You're probably reading too much into it."

"I had a pet _skeleton_ once, and _it_ died."

"...touchè."

Nath shrugs, Miri half-smiles, and they move onto other topics as the night stretches on. Miri's fairly certain she's half-asleep for part of it, but she seems to be answering questions regardless, and Nath doesn't seem to mind. She sings for a little while; that somehow leads to a rather poetic speech from Nath about _proper _fermentation processes and the evils of grain-based alcohol. Miri finds herself humming absently in agreement after a while, not hearing anything but enjoying the odd lilt of Nath's voice. After a while, she almost thinks she could fall asleep; they're both quiet, as comfortable as is possible when lying on the ground, and her eyes drift closed several times. At some point Nath shifts, stroking her fingers along the back of Miri's sore hand, and the dull ache from her broken string fades. Blinking in an attempt to focus, she brings the hand almost to her face to find the mark healed, and she smiles sleepily and murmurs something grateful.

She almost drifts off, but somehow she's less sleepy now than just... quiet. Content.

"You," Nath begins, and stops. A pause. "You were the first."

It takes a moment for the meaning of this to register before Miri, who had stirred slightly when the drow first spoke, goes very still. She looks at the drow in a mixture of wonder and sickened guilt. "I was... _Nath..."_

"The first that... that I _chose_." There's a long silence in which that sinks in. Nath is looking at the ground, shamefully, and she looks so small and vulnerable and _young_. "I... I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Miri whispers, shifting closer to the drow. "Nath, what are you _sorry_ for?"

"For misleading you. For... for making you think I was _worth_ something."

And Miri feels sick again, not in guilt, but in that she's _sincere_—that she thinks herself _worthless_.

"Nath, you know that's not what I meant," she says softly. "There's nothing _wrong _with you, I just..."

The drow touches the scarf in her hair. "Legally, I'm an adult."

Miri swallows, not without difficulty. Somehow during the conversation she's shifted so she's almost leaning over Nath; not quite, but almost, and it was definitely a bad idea to get quite so close. "You're still..." she starts, unable to form a complete sentence, unsure of what the rest of the sentence was even supposed to be. She closes her eyes in an attempt to focus, and succeeds in nothing more than increasing her awareness of every tiny movement the drow makes. "Nath, I _can't."_

She'd thought they were too close, but suddenly the distance seems unbearable.

Nath is silent for a long time, silent and still, and finally Miri looks up to see what she's doing. She's met with a pair of oddly expressive blood-red eyes, watching her patiently, clearly waiting.

"The Underdark, especially near the Glimmersea, is very dangerous," she says quietly, apropos of nothing. "Large families are common, or else the race would have fallen extinct æons ago." She plays with a lock of Miri's auburn hair, smiling softly. "Drow marry young."

It's something about the way she says it, like it's her last hope—sad and optimistic at the same time, those big red eyes almost pleading, that breaks her. Miri takes a breath, ignoring the little voice in the back of her head that says _no, don't do it, this is a horrible idea, she's just a kid_; because nothing could be further from the truth, because Nath is anything but a child, because judging the appropriateness of a relationship between two wildly inhuman races using human estimations is just _stupid_, and so she leans in and kisses her, as softly as the night they met.

It's not a burning kiss; there's no simmering passion under it, no sickening sweetness, no fireworks. For some reason, however, Miri seems to have forgotten to breathe at some point, because when they pull apart, just barely enough to break the contact, she's more than a little breathless. She closes her eyes, leaning forward to rest her forehead against Nath's; the drow's fingers rest delicately on the soft skin at her throat, ghosting against the edge of her jawline, close and comfortable and it feels _right_.

"I can sleep now?" Rennic jibes. "Any longer and I thought you two were going to start attracting curious Orcs."

Miri, suddenly noticing the absence of Allerod's deep breathing across the dying fire, tries with limited success to control the flush she can feel creeping up her neck. Nath hisses something unintelligible at Rennic; if she's blushing Miri can't tell for the skin, but something about her voice suggests it.

Rennic emits a short "Hah" before he rolls over, and Allerod says "Good night!" in a tone that sounds like he's trying not to laugh. Nath mutters darkly, but she cuddles into Miri's shoulder while she does so, tiny and warm and—dare she say it—trusting.

Most of the night is gone; in a few hours, the sun will rise, Al will perkily inform them of the fact and they'll be back on the road to Silverymoon before they have time to realise they're awake. But for now there's a pleasant weight on her shoulder and a slim hand resting shyly over hers under the blankets, and Miri nuzzles just a little bit closer, smiling as she finally falls asleep.

* * *

**Highsun on the fourth day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The River Ashaba in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

The mouse sits on the cobbles, minding its own business. It's white and fuzzy and a bit on the small side, and completely oblivious to its imminent demise.

It sits up, sniffing the air. It tenses, and the cat leaps. There's a single squeak, and then silence.

A clean kill. Nath smiles.

"Nath?" calls a voice. Carter is plodding towards her, his wooden sword dragging behind him. "Aunt Miri said you'd be here," he continues when he reaches her.

"...hello, Carter. Why were you looking for me?"

Carter does not look like his usual cheerful self. "Can I sit with you?" he asks nervously.

"Of course."

Carter slumps down on the step beside her, and they watch the cat work on its meal. Carter doesn't quite seem to see it. For a while, neither of them says anything.

Finally, Carter breaks the silence. "I want to be an adventurer," he says in a rush. "I really, really do, I don't want to stay here like Alice does, I want to go out and help people!"

"Why are you so anxious, then, if you know what you want to do?" Nath smiles at him indulgently. He's growing on her.

"Because what if I do it _wrong?_"

"What do you mean?"

Carter looks wretched. "Because... I thought it would be... I mean, I always thought I knew how to do it! You fight evil, protect good... but now I don't know how, because I thought Evil things were... _Evil._ You _have_ to... you know, kill them, because if you don't they'll hurt people who weren't doing anything bad! That's what makes someone Evil! I mean, that's what everyone _says_." He's babbling, trying to find the words to describe his moral dilemma. "I always thought that if someone was Evil, it was because they did evil things. _Bad_ things, to hurt innocent people. But _you_ don't do that, and... I mean, you act _Good._ But you're not. But you're not bad, either, and... now I don't know what to do," he finishes miserably.

She puts an awkward hand on his shoulder. "It's not an easy question, I know. There aren't any simple answers, not that I know of, but you're looking for them, and that's what matters, isn't it?"

Carter nods doubtfully. "But... how do you know if someone is evil or just Evil, if alignments don't matter?"

She sighs. "You just have to go by their actions. If someone is hurting people who never did anything to hurt them or anyone else, then they're... the words are confusing, aren't they?"

Carter nods.

"Evil and Good are... they're just words. A mesh of sounds. They don't have any intrinsic meaning. People _give_ them meaning. Does that make sense?"

He nods a second time, and Nath moves closer to him. "Meanings change, all the time. They evolve. And maybe a long time ago, when people first started dividing the world into Good and Neutral and Evil, maybe then it meant kind, and unconcerned, and cruel. But when a culture becomes a dominant force, and their culture becomes the norm, then the other cultures get pushed away. People start to think of them as bad, because they aren't the same as themselves. Xenophobia begins to taint the definition, and then it loses any meaning it once had. Good is what is human. Neutral is kind of different, but not so much that they can't be reconciled. And Evil is what is alien."

"So how do you know if you're doing what's _right?"_

"You make certain to remember that whenever you take a life, you're killing a _person_, not just a species. Sometimes, of course, you have no choice; but you have to be sure that you're doing it because it _feels_ morally necessary, that you aren't just doing what _society_ says is right. Society isn't perfect. Nothing is. But we can all try our best, can't we?"

"Is that why you became a necromancer? Because it felt right?"

Nath is silent for a minute. A sigh. "When I was very young, younger than you, I was hurt badly, by someone I trusted. I became a necromancer because... in a way, yes, because it felt right. It let me defend myself." She looks over at him with a quick smile, almost an afterthought. "And defend the people I care for."

Carter thinks about it for a second. "It makes people respect you," he says slowly. "And they probably leave you alone, right? And... that was the best thing for _you _to do, so you did it?"

"Exactly," she says. "Girls don't usually become Mages, where I'm from. We usually stick to divine magic. I... didn't really care. It felt right." She shrugs. "That's all anyone can do, regardless of alignment. There's no one _right_ way." Seeing that Carter still looks troubled (she's gotten much better at reading human facial expressions), Nath continues, "Here. You want to be an adventurer, yes?"

Carter nods again, less enthusiastically than before. "Yeah. I want to be a Fighter, and James is going to be a Rogue so we can help each other."

"Exactly." Nath seems pleased. "If you were both Fighters, you wouldn't have the makings of a very good party, would you? You need to have a _mix_ of skills for a group to be successful. Everyone has that one skill that the others don't have, and there will be times when they're the only ones who can help."

Carter seems partially reassured by this. "Of course," he says. "Dad always says it takes all sorts. And Aunt Miri says you should always have a bard, even if they're useless, because if you _don't_ have one you find out they're not so useless after all." Nath's lips twitch, and he continues, encouraged. "So... what do necromancers _do_, anyway? I never really thought about it. Do you just... make zombies and stuff?"

"Necromancy is about the cycle of life and death. If there wasn't death in the world, life wouldn't be as special. We do all kinds of things, though, not _just_ making zombies. Though that is a lot of it."

Carter tries not to make a face. "That's sort of... I mean, why would you want to spend your whole life making _zombies_? It just seems... ew. And... wrong. Shouldn't dead things stay dead?"

She smiles. "Here, look." She points to the remains of the mouse. "Do you see it? Watch." She touches the cobbles, and a flicker of magic slides along them. The skeleton begins to move, rearranging into its original shape; the cat leaps several feet in the air before bolting out of the alleyway, and the mouse stands, flicking a bony tail. Where its eyes should be is a soft blue glow, strangely expressive, and the little creature sprints over to them. Nath sets it in the palm of her hand, and Carter laughs as it sniffs the air. "Is that so wrong? Oh, it likes you."

Carter makes a sound that can only be called a giggle as the skeletal mouse scrambles up his sleeve, perching on his shoulder and examining his ear in great detail. "He tickles!"

The mouse squeaks approvingly, Carter's ear apparently having passed muster, and its little blue eye-lights blink. Carter extends a tentative finger, stroking its bony little head, and it nuzzles his finger.

The boy's eyes light up. "He _likes_ me!" He beams at Nath. "Can I keep him? Or..." his face falls slightly, though he tries to hide it. "Will... will he die again when you leave?"

"It won't, don't worry. Zombies are... hard to kill. You have to have a sort of gift for it, I think. Being so terrible at nurturing it gives up and dies. And I doubt that will happen." She smiles kindly.

Carter shakes his head firmly. "I'll take good care of him!" he promises, and Nath decides not to tell him that his new friend is female. "Um... he doesn't eat _people,_ right?"

"Of course not. He doesn't eat anything, actually. They're rather easy to take care of."

Carter scoops his mouse carefully into one hand. "He can sleep next to my bed," he says loyally. "And I'll teach him to stay away from cats and snakes and _everything!_ Hey, little guy," he adds softly to the delicate creature. "Want to come see my room?"

"Aren't you going to give him a name?"

He thinks about it. "Marvin," he says firmly. "His name's Marvin."

"Marvin is," Nath says slowly, "a wonderful name. Probably not a very _traditional_ one, for an animated skeleton, but, well. Tradition doesn't have to be followed, does it?"

"Well," Carter reasons, "He's had a very stressful day. It'd just be mean to rub it in. Come on, Marvin," he adds, tipping her gently into an inside pocket. "I'll go make you a bed.

* * *

**Midnight on the eighth day of the first week of the Melting in the Year of the Worm.  
** **An inn of middling quality in Marsember of Cormyr.**

The wind is blowing when Miri awakes, whispering through the window's bars and causing leaves to swirl and accumulate against the far wall.

At least it isn't raining.

Miri hasn't woken because of the wind, though. That's a normal thing, this part of the year, and they've been spending the last week camping out-of-doors, which is infinitely worse. Adventuring sounded good on paper, sure; but have a damp tent collapse on you at Night's End and see how _you _like it.

She's woken, rather, because someone is being tortured six inches away.

She thrashes awake in a blind panic, falling off the mattress onto a slightly more comfortable wooden floor as she looks frantically around for whomever's screaming—screaming like the world's about to end.

Her heart nearly stops when she finds the source of the screams. "Nath!" She tries to kneel next to the drow, only to be slapped across the face for her trouble.

"Ow—Nath, what's—" An attempt to shake her trancing partner awake is met with a violent spasm and a cry of fear and pain. (_Because as much as she tried to deny it, she_ did _feel pain and she_ did _know fear, she just tried to hide it, even from herself..._) "For pity's _sake_, Nath, you're going to hurt yourself!"

Taking matters into her own hands, she manages to grab one slim black wrist. Wincing at the knee that drives into her ribs in retaliation, Miri manages to put most of her weight on top of the thrashing elf, holding her down.

It doesn't stop the screams.

It seems an infinite amount of time passes, or perhaps no time at all, until Nath's eyes open. They're clouded, however, in a distance which tells Miri that she's not really present, yet, and the piercing shrieks continue. Miri wishes she could cover her ears, and thanks the gods that this is the sort of tavern where no-one really thinks screams of terror in the middle of the night are anything notable. Though she'd appreciate some help, something tells her that Nath wouldn't.

Another length of time, _holy shit_ the drow has strong lungs, and Nath finally looks _at_ her instead of through her. Miri gulps.

"Are... are you..." She swallows again. "Are you all right? Nath? It's me—"

"G-get off." The drow's voice is hoarse from screaming.

Miri slowly releases her death-grip on Nath's wrists, sitting up and watching her warily, as if she's expecting her to shatter at any moment.

Nath pushes up to something approximating a sitting position against the clay-brick wall. She's shaking, having trouble supporting her own minuscule weight, and she looks far more exhausted than anyone who's spent—Miri squints at the window—something like five hours trancing really ought to be.

"Nath...?" Miri reaches out, placing a gentle hand on Nath's knee. "Nath, what... was that?" She watches the drow for a minute, then shifts so that she's kneeling in front of her. "What were you... dreaming about? _Nath_."

"Nothing im—" and her voice doesn't want to co-operate, "—important. Really. Don't... don't worry about it."

Miri looks at her for several heartbeats, silent. When she speaks again, her voice is soft, almost tender. "Was it your stepfather?" she asks gently.

The moment the words leave her lips, she knows without a doubt that they were a mistake.

Nath's demeanor changes instantly, and even as she looks tiny and pitiable, she _feels_ like a deadly artefact, the sort that's ancient and sentient and _malicious_. "Who told you about that?" she hisses, her voice cracking in the dryness of her throat.

"No one!" Miri says hastily. "He didn't tell me anything—they didn't—nobody told me," she finishes pathetically.

Nath remains, rather understandably, unconvinced. She _stares _with a look that forcibly reminds Miri that the drow are the direct descendants of demons—less with malevolence and more _insistence_, though, honestly, the distinction is purely intellectual.

Miri shifts uneasily. "Nobody told me _anything_," she repeats. "I just heard them talking, they mentioned..." She trails off, dropping her eyes and curling her arms around her stomach.

"That's odd," says Nath, with a coldness Miri used to be grateful would never be directed at her. "Because _I don't believe you_."

"I don't..." Tears threaten for a moment at the corners of her eyes, but she shakes them away impatiently and looks back up, forcing herself to meet Nath's gaze evenly. "Nath, I don't _know_ what happened, and I'm not about to find out by asking _Rennic_. I..." Her tone turns pleading. "I want to hear it from you. _Please_. I can _help _you."

"It is," and here Nath enunciates so clearly that each word is clipped as though it's a sentence standing on its own, "_not_ your _concern_." If it's even possible, her voice is _colder_, to a point where even magic itself, if the theories everyone knew about but no-one understood were right, is still, because it _can't move_ on account of being too busy _freezing_. "..._Miria_."

Of all the words that could have held the power to stop time, turn her lungs to stone and her muscles to water and freeze her down to the marrow all at once, Miri had never, until this moment, thought that word could possibly be something as mundane as her _name_.

Miri realises, in the moment of clarity which comes alongside your blood turning to ice, that she is almost certainly about to die, and she decides in that instant that she may as well find out _why_.

Before she has time to think, the one part of her brain not paralyzed by fear has locked eyes with Nath and leaps _in_ and _out_ at the same time, twisting in a queer jump, drowning in red as her _self_ stretches and snaps, and dives into the dark.

Feeling returns in a rush.

"_—reztorm, Nathcyrl._"

Alien.

That is the first impression Miri has of herself—or rather, not of herself, because she isn't this small, this breakable—birdlike, almost, full of soft skin and delicate bones and big, bright eyes that look curiously at everything around them. The whole _world_ is alien. It's dark, too dark to possibly see anything, and yet the darkness isn't quite... dark. She can see as clearly as if the whole place is lit, and yet she still _knows _that it's dark.

It's _weird_.

It's also incredibly confusing. Her eyes keep moving around on their own, darting from this rock to that rock and back to another, more interestingly-shaped rock, while Miri still reels inside her new body, trying in vain to get her bearings. This would be much easier if she could look where she wants to and move her own limbs, but such is the nature of memory spells; she will experience this exactly as it is.

A flare of impossibly bright light makes her fling up an arm, cringing, and it's slightly disconcerting to have done so without actually moving her body. But then, this isn't _her _memory...

Slowly lowering her arm, Miri—_Nath,_ she thinks, _this is Nath, not me_—squints at the torches. The light sears her eyes, but she doesn't look away, fascinated by the dancing silver flames. They're bright, yes; but somehow, their very brightness makes everywhere their light touches seem dimmer, harder to see. It's almost like they're sucking light _out _of the room.

An unfamiliar voice says something in a harsh, rhythmic language, almost a chant, and Nath glances over at the speaker and away again, too quickly for Miri to get any sort of idea about them. Her initial impression, that being Nath was something like being a flightless bird, is reinforced by the way her eyes flit over their surroundings. The strange, silver-gray flames make it harder to make out anything, but she seems determined to see everything there is all the same. There's not much to see; the brick walls are worn and tired-looking, the floor is bare, slightly uneven rock, and doors that ought to have rotted years ago barely manage to cling to flaking hinges. Everything is a shade of either gray or black, and Miri wonders if it's just the light, or something more.

It would have been enough to set her teeth on edge, but Nath seems nothing more than slightly bored at most. How she can be so perfectly at home in a _dungeon _is something Miri prefers not to think about.

There's another, slightly higher-pitched, more musical flow of indistinguishable syllables, and it takes Miri a moment to realise they're coming from her own mouth—a thick, deliberate language that would send a shiver down her spine if it was her own spine.

Mentally shaking off the brief moment of disorientation, she manages to focus on the object of Nath's temporary attention. The drow is marginally handsome and rather unremarkable, his only distinguishing feature a bandaged wound around one hand, and he answers her enthusiastically and with a friendly smile.

She may not have been in this particular body very long, but Miri knows what suspicion feels like.

Nath says something else, causing the other drow to laugh, but his reply apparently doesn't reassure her. She frowns slightly, taking in for the first time what are apparently irregularities, as she actually focuses on them for more than two seconds at a time. The frown deepens as she traces the path of a wide circle on the ground, composed of complex chalk symbols, weird squiggly lines, unfamiliar characters and something that looks like an evil smiley face. Her eyes dart back to the man for a moment; he looks over for a second and gives another cheerful smile, but it evaporates as he turns back to his work. Magic shimmers visibly in the air, gray on gray, a spiderweb of intersecting lines that flares in and out of existence as strange, unsettling black symbols line themselves up under the older drow's careful direction. The silvery aura darkens visibly every time a new glyph fades into existence.

Miri is starting to get a very bad feeling about this.

The man, having laced the final threads together, turns back to Nath and says something. She hesitates, then shakes her head decisively, hiding in a shadow. The man looks briefly frustrated, but it's gone so fast Miri isn't quite sure she even saw it. Sighing, he smiles understandingly and holds out a hand, speaking in the low, encouraging tone often used with shy children. Nath hesitates a moment longer, then steps slowly out of her shadow. In a rush of bravery, she darts over to him, and he chuckles and ruffles her hair affectionately. Patting her on the shoulder, he says something that could have sounded reassuring, _would_ have sounded reassuring if it wasn't for the implacable sense that something was... wrong, this was not a good idea, something was off, she needed to be somewhere _not here_...

Miri isn't sure _whose_ memory it is that whispers the words. _Drow are_ _never afraid._

The man smiles kindly at her, a trustworthy grin, reaching his eyes, which Nath—and, by extension, Miri—sees as a sort of greenish-purplish grey, which is somehow no less grey than any other of the greys, but... different, somehow. It is the colour of magic, and it is beautiful, in its own way. He says something softly, and Miri feels herself—Nath—nod, and then _he _nods, to himself, approvingly, and begins to chant.

The words are different from what they're speaking; they seem to echo, except that that isn't the right word—Miri doesn't know a word that could fit. It is him speaking—she knows his voice—but the words come sooner than his lips move, and a second voice follows only a second behind, and this is what matches his lips. The words themselves ring with power, an inexorable, unrelenting force building, growing, until the very air can't move for the weight of it, something has to give...

Reality loses.

An invisible, rippling rend in _existence _rips itself into place inches from the young Nath, more a distortion of the eyes than of the world. It spasms, as if the universe itself is in agony, and takes form. A... creature takes its place, something terribly inhuman, an eldritch mass of tenticular monstrosity, impossible to describe; even looking at it straight on, Miri lacks a comprehension of the geometry of the thing. Nath makes a sound deep in her throat, a sort of squeaking terror which was too shocked to form a scream, and she backs up, and it all happens so quickly that Miri isn't sure what's happening, only she's hitting against some sort of barrier, even as she's in the middle of the room, inside the...

...inside the circle...

Miri actually _feels_ an all-important understanding click into place inside her borrowed head, a realisation that she doesn't quite understand but Nath clearly does. Nath is... well, actually, Miri hasn't the slightest idea _what _she's doing, but it's mostly some sort of frantic clawing at the glyphs hanging in the air, shimmering and blocking any chance of exit. It's a pattern, but Miri doesn't understand it or so much as recognise it, and when it fails, she twists around to face the man, and she's pushing all her weight back into the barrier, as though there might have been a small chance that it would crumple under her. Her voice is high, worried and accusing as she asks a question in that twisting, deliberate tongue.

Fileth (the name is just _there_, and Miri is not about to question it), still safely outside the barrier, ignores Nath's panicked attempts at escape. He doesn't even look over at her question. Taking his time, he carefully unwinds the bandage around his left hand, inspecting the fresh wound beneath as, with chilling casualness, he reaches into an inside pocket and pulls out a silver dagger.

Nath's eyes snap to the knife like a hawk's and stay there, widening in terror as she struggles desperately against the web of magic holding her inside the circle, shouting an increasingly fearful, rapid-fire blur of strange syllables that would have tangled Miri up in knots but seem second-nature to the young drow. The two share a fleeting, desperate hope that maybe whatever force is holding them in will also keep Fileth _out_; a hope that fades almost before it has time to appear properly as he steps through the glowing lattice like there's nothing there.

Nath cringes back, pressing herself into the magic barrier as if hoping it might absorb her. She tries to scramble away from Fileth, who has yet to lose that calm, reassuring smile even as he holds a knife over the child, but moving in that direction brings her closer to the... _thing_... and she can't bring herself to look at it for more than a brief moment, let alone move towards it.

Fileth takes her hand, almost gently. She tries to yank it away, but his hold on her instantly becomes far less gentle. Keeping her wrist in a bruising grip, he lifts it until she's almost on tiptoe, transferring the silver knife to his injured hand. The long gash in his palm opens again as he wraps his fingers around the hilt, staining the silver. Ignoring Nath's desperate whimpers and the tiny fist beating against his legs, he places the edge of the knife against her skin, just below the wrist. Carefully, almost lovingly, he presses the blade into her arm, just enough to break the skin, enough for Nath to wince—

—and in a single sharp movement, he slices her arm to the bone from wrist to elbow.

She screams. The word doesn't do it justice; it's a sound Miri would never have thought Nath capable of making. It rips from her throat and claws at the walls on the way out, piercing, despairing, utterly horrible.

And then the pain comes.

There are no words, not in Common. Probably inDdrow, but the words are almost assuredly unprintable even then, and Miri knows because they're slipping into her consciousness from Nath's, a long stream of profanity mingling with a repetitive sort of lyric—a chant, Miri realises, she's praying (and the words are probably something along the lines of "O Lolth, Demon Queen of Spiders, _oh_ shit, grant your, shitshitshit, child strength, fuck, to persevere _oh gods_..."). The blade slides through the skin and muscle and ligament without any difficulty, as though it were sliding through water, and it hits the bone, but that doesn't stop it, and it tears through it, into the marrow, and it feels like she's on fire, like the flesh is charring and there's _so much blood_ and Miri wants to vomit—but she can't, because she isn't even _here_, can't control the body she's in, she's only seeing a memory but the pain feels _real _and in that moment she reaches a conclusion.

_This was a terrible idea._

In an agony-fueled panic, she scrambles against her own spell, groping frantically along the connection to try to pull herself into her own body, her own mind, in _this_ time because _this is only a memory it isn't real it's not real it's not _real_—_

It's something akin to realising, halfway down, that the cliff you've just jumped off has sharp rocks at the bottom.

She tries desperately to backpedal; she can see the way back, can feel the exact path she burned through Nath's mind, but the flow of magic is too strong against her. For a moment, she manages to hold on, to almost dam the current—but then the spell sweeps her feet out from under her, wrenching her back and slamming her into the memory with all the force that it's managed to build up behind her clumsy block. The barriers between her mind and Nath's are destroyed on impact.

All of a sudden, everything is far too real. She can't even close her eyes as she shatters on the rocks.

And Miria Scuttleleaf is no more.

* * *

**Eleven Bells on Seven of One of Marpenoth in the Year of the Dying Stars.  
** **T'lindhet, Middledark.**

Fileth grins darkly at her now, dropping any pretense of being a decent parent, and says, sotto voce, "I would tell you to watch your language, but then, it doesn't matter, does it? No more than you do to your goddess." He cuts into Nathcyrl's arm again, the blade going just as deep if not deeper, but she's having trouble finding the strength to scream. She's losing blood too quickly, her vision's hazy, fading around the edges and blurring everywhere, and it's not until a tear falls to her outstretched arm, he's got his cut hand cupped beneath it to catch the blood, that she realises she's crying, and that just makes everything worse. She's weak, afraid.

_Drow are_ never_ afraid_.

She can hardly see at all, and she hears through a sort of filter, where everything he says sounds as though she's hearing it through water; she's _dying_, can't he _see_ that, what is he _doing_? and he's pushing a stick of wood into one of the slices in her arm, no care for any pain she might have, and the skin closes. From what seems like miles away, Nathcyrl watches him treat something which is still a magical artefact, even if it's only a Wand of Curing Minor Wounds, as though it's trash, simply throwing it outside the circle, and she'd wince if she had the strength; she's still dangerously weak, if not at immediate risk of dying from blood loss, and struggling to stay upright.

Of course, that last is soon corrected, a strong arm sending her sprawling in the very middle of the circle. She hits her head on the stone, not hard enough to do any real damage, but enough that she'll have a nasty headache tomorrow, though that's the least of her worries right now. She's probably imagining it, but the demon seems to look at her pityingly, and straightens its back in a way which could be taken as a shrug, as though saying it's very sorry, but it does have to be an impartial observer, here, there are _rules_, and if she weren't already crying, she'd start now; it's all pain and fear and a sort of horrible anticipation, and the tears fall faster.

The man towers above her, and he laughs derisively, mocks her for crying—she doesn't take in the words. She tries to sit up, but instantly crumples again, vision blurring. She retches, giving a low, keening moan at the sickening rush of pain from her injured arm and clutches the searing limb awkwardly to her chest, sobbing for breath. A strong hand wraps around the elbow, pulling it roughly away; for a moment, wild-animal instinct causes her to fight, hold her arm closer, but he's stronger than her and the pulling _hurts _and she's forced to let go.

A sharp pressure on her chest almost manages to distract her from the liquid burn in her arm; the dagger is back. Fileth's eyes are mocking as he increases the pressure just enough to poke through the fabric of her dress, just below her sternum, where her ribs end. Cruel amusement dancing in his eyes, he turns the knife edge along her body. Unable to help herself, Nathcyrl whimpers and closes her eyes, bracing herself against the inevitable stab to her unprotected belly.

It doesn't come.

There's a pulling sensation, the sound of a blade being ripped down her body, a rush of cold, and she stiffens and gives a choked cry of despair. It takes several moments for her to realise that she hasn't been gutted after all. The knife has torn down her body, yes, but it didn't break the skin, only slicing through the fabric of her dress. It disappears back into that inside pocket, and she blinks the tears from her eyes, fighting to get rid of the blur.

When her vision clears, she wishes she was still blinded. The look in Fileth's eyes has her swiftly reconsidering that "only", the one that suggests that it might be better than the alternative, something which she's rather doubting. His gaze drifts down her exposed form, from a tear-stained face and limp curls, to a child's body, a pinprick of blood pooling at the base of her ribcage where he pressed the dagger, the sharp ridges of thin hips clearly visible through the skin. Long-fingered hands and sharp elbows and blood beginning to dry. Legs sprawled unnaturally beneath her. Bare feet caked in dirt that had accumulated on the stone.

He licks his lips, and the heavy robe slips to the floor.

She doesn't scream.

She wants to—more than anything, she wants to scream and cry and break down, because it _hurts_ and it's _so wrong_ and _why is this happening she did everything she was supposed to..._

But that smile, the smile that still appears _reassuring _even as he pins her down by the wounded arm, only grows wider when she screams, and he laughs outright, delightedly, when she sobs and struggles and begs him to stop.

So she doesn't, even if the feeling of him tearing through her is worse than the dagger, even if the tiniest movement he makes pulls her flesh in some other way it was never meant to withstand and _doesn't _and she's choking on the sound and only partially managing to stop it and he's laughing softly into her ear.

She doesn't cry, not when his tongue is down her throat and she _can't breathe _and she tries to twist away from him but that only makes it worse; not when he tells her, in that parental sort of disapproval, "Stay still, Illiam," as though he has any right to call her his beloved.

She doesn't struggle, because it doesn't do any good and it _hurts_ to move and every time she tries he just hurts her _more _and smirks and tells her to stop, so maybe if she just stays perfectly still he won't have a reason to hurt her any more.

But he doesn't stop, even when she's gone limp and doesn't make a sound and he should have _stopped_, she's not _doing_ anything for him to punish her for, and he just pushes harder and deeper and she's hurting in places she never knew _existed_ and _oh gods please no_ and she can't hold back the tears any longer. They well in her eyes, overflow into her hair; her head twitches from side to side, a hopeless _no_, pleading silently to please, please, just _stop_, and he chuckles, and she can feel his breath in her ear and then there's a strange sensation at the tip and it just feels _weird_ and _then_ she realises what he's doing and she freezes and it's this horrible feeling, like her heart has stopped and she feels ill and this is so _wrong_ and _why is he doing this_?

The _wrongness_, the _unfairness_ of it all, _why is this happening_, manifests in a wordless keen as she thrashes—only her head moves, because the rest of her refuses to—and her breath is so fast she's almost not breathing but she doesn't _care _anymore, she just wants to be away from this circle and safe and for none of this to have ever happened and... and...

"Don't try to fight," he admonishes, his tone almost playful and so much at odds to the situation, catching her chin easily. "You'll only succeed in injuring yourself."

She barely hears the words. She doesn't care anymore. There's nothing left to care with.

It feels as though it's going on forever, and she's crying as he continues on in that mockery of a lover's embrace, the tender kisses and the travelling hands, and it ends somewhat anticlimactically, only a feeling of something wet and thick and then he's pulling away from her.

Sprawled awkwardly on the cold floor, she manages to twitch closer to herself—it's all she can manage, her muscles won't respond the way they're supposed to and she hurts all over. Her eyes, sore and aching from crying, squeeze shut as he stands, turns, and speaks, voice echoing again, chanting once more at the Outsider she's almost forgotten, the one that's maybe not so bad after all because it's just doing its job...

The dual-toned murmur stops, and she curls instinctively tighter, as much as she can, screwing her eyes shut.

There's a pause.

And then she's ripped to pieces.

It's this feeling of being pulled apart, of her _being_ dragged kicking and screaming and it's not the only part of her that's screaming, because it's this unbearable pain in no place in particular, because it's _everywhere _and so she screams, a terrible high-pitched thing that goes on for so long as to be unnatural, she can't _possibly _have that much air, and when she finally runs out she's still screaming, it's only that there isn't sound.

And then it's over, and she's curled into a tiny ball of blood and bones and pain, retching on the aftershock and the cloying, metallic smell, and her body decides that it can't take this anymore, it's had _enough_.

The last thing she's aware of is the sound of Fileth behind her, calmly getting dressed.

* * *

**Midnight on the eighth day of the first week of the Melting in the Year of the Worm.  
** **An inn of middling quality in Marsember of Cormyr.**

There's no rush this time, no sense of magic—or maybe there was, and she just didn't notice.

It's dark here, too.

Gradually, Miri starts to remember bits and pieces of herself, and she realises she's shaking. Not crying—she doesn't have enough control over herself for that— but there are tears coursing down her cheeks and she's trembling so hard she wouldn't be able to see straight even if they weren't blinding her, and someone she can't see is crying out in agony but she has no sympathy for them. Her lungs fill partially, in jerky leaps that threaten to shift her out of her tightly-coiled fetal position, so she curls closer to herself out of pure hopeless instinct, trying to make herself a smaller target for the world.

At some point, she realises that the hoarse cries are coming from her own throat. She doesn't know how to stop them and she doesn't care.

It takes a while before it dawns on her that she's no longer in pain. Slowly, one muscle at a time, she relaxes. Her breath is still fast and hollow, but she's breathing. The ragged sobs calm and fade. She remembers who she is.

To say her blood runs cold would be an understatement. She can almost feel frost forming on her skin.

Glacially slow, she looks up, and goes very, very still.

Nath is perfectly calm, in the way of the eye of a storm, and her voice is as ice. "Creative."

Miri cringes, tries to say something, _anything_—explain, apologise, beg forgiveness or at least mercy—but her mouth is dry and she can't seem to remember how to use her lungs, and it's all she can do to whisper the one name that matters, hoarsely, just once.

"_Nath_... I..."

"You _what_?" The drow's voice does not raise—it never does—but the edge on her voice is as sharp as any blade, and just as cutting. "Apologise? Wish you hadn't done it? I regret to inform you that what is done is _done_, it cannot be forgotten, and it cannot be erased. Perhaps, then, you should guard your actions, else you make the same mistake a second time." There is no mercy in her eyes. "You are not an _idiot_, Miria; you cannot _possibly_ have been without an idea of what you were getting yourself into. Was it worse than you were expecting? More immersive? It does not matter; the outcome is the same, and do _not_ think that I will offer you forgiveness because of it. Oh no," and the tone changes to a condescending baby-talk, "Miri's scarred for life, because _she can't respect the wishes of others_. So _very _sad."

The tone is, Miri realises, hatred, or at least a form of anger so far beyond any Nath has shown her before that it may as well be. At some point there will be despair, she knows; but right now the only emotion she's capable of is sheer, animalistic terror as she huddles against the dirty wall, unable to look away, cowering before a blow that some part of her knows isn't coming, and part of her wishes it would.

What comes instead is a single word, layered with magic and disgust and pain and a million other negative emotions. "Sleep."

And suddenly her eyes are heavy and she's fighting to keep them open but they're so _heavy_ and Nath is watching her as though she's an interesting sort of bug, and then she's speaking again, and the words are thick with loathing.

"Goodnight, _Illiam_."

She knows logically that it's an accusation and not a threat, but the part of her which hasn't bothered to make the disconnect is reeling back and then Miri can't keep her eyes open anymore, and the last thing she sees is Nath, watching her coldly as everything turns black.

* * *

**Highsun on the fourth day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Thatcher House in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

"Thanks, mum," Miri says, taking the hot cup of tea with a faint attempt at a smile. She hadn't wanted to come today. She'd given her family the previous day to cool down in the hope that they could try again, but Don's attitude had affected Nath more strongly than she'd realised. Miri had been firm in her refusal to come back without her, but Nath had insisted, and she didn't have the heart to argue with her.

So here she was.

"Don't mention it, sweetheart," says Katerina smilingly. She's getting old, Miri realises with a pang. She's human, and she's aging. Her whole family is. Her baby brother has kids who're growing up so quickly, soon they'll have her beaten. It's terrifying. "I'm sorry about the other night. I don't know what got into your brother."

Miri doesn't drink her tea, yet. There's something comforting about just holding it. "He's not the first," she says, trying not to let her mother see how much that fact hurts her. "He won't be the last. I never thought it was going to be easy."

Katerina frowns. "No, it can't be easy, can it? It seems like a bit of an overreaction, though. She doesn't seem very dangerous, does she? The poor thing..."

Miri is very glad that she decided not to drink her tea, because she probably would have choked on it. As it is, she reaches instinctively to grab Nath's wrist before remembering that—thank the gods—Nath isn't actually here.

"Mother," she croaks. "Please don't say that. Er... ever. Okay? Nath's incredibly powerful and insanely dangerous, and she's proud of it. You've never seen her face when someone accuses her of being scared of _anything_."

"_Someone?_" Katerina asks shrewdly.

"Well, me." Miri turns the cup anxiously in her hands, trying to find a way to explain. "I... Nath is the strongest person I know but she's terrified of people thinking she's weak. It's kind of a drow thing, if..." She hesitates, wondering how much she can say, but then this is her _mother_ she's talking to. "If she's weak it means people can hurt her. And when I first met her I didn't know that yet, I said some stupid... Technically, I didn't _see_ her face, but… Believe me, you don't want to go through that." Glancing at the door Don had vanished through, she adds pointedly, "She didn't know who I _was _yet, and I really don't think she would have done it anyway. She wouldn't hurt me _now_, I know that much. But... just don't pity her."

"It's hard not to, to be honest. She's so sweet, sometimes, you just want to protect her."

Miri glances around the kitchen before muttering "You have no idea." Katerina smiles warmly, and after a minute Miri does too.

* * *

**Afternoon on the fourth day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Thatcher House in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

He'd done the right thing.

Don Thatcher sighs, running a hand through his hair. He _knew_ he'd done the right thing. He'd done what any brother in the world would have done seeing their innocent, starry-eyed little sister fawning over an Outsider—what any _man_ would have done when his family was in danger. And yet _he_ was the one they saw as in the wrong.

It wasn't as if he couldn't see why they liked the thing. The... Nath, he supposed, he couldn't pronounce her name to save his life... she had been, for the most part, quiet and polite and even shy. At first, he had actually felt a sort of affection towards her; she was clearly important to Miri, and Miri had always had good, if eccentric, judgement.

But this... He just couldn't understand where that judgement had gone. Once he'd gotten a chance to calm himself, he had been forced to acknowledge that there was a perfectly good chance Miri hadn't been put under a spell after all. If anything, Nath had been taking orders from _her_, though that was alarming in a completely different way_._ But there was more than one way of controlling a person, and that was something his sister just didn't seem to understand. Even _Light_ Mages could be manipulative and unpredictable, and it was so easy to be drawn to them, to start making excuses until you lost the ability to decide for yourself when it got to be too much...

Carter enters the house in his usual whirlwind of activity, head half-tucked inside his jacket and looking even more distracted than usual.

"Carter?"

"Oh, hi, dad," he says happily. "Look what Nath gave me!" He holds out his hands to him, the animated skeleton of a small mouse curled happily. "His name is Marvin. He was dead, but then Nath made him better, and she said he likes me!"

Sǫᴜᴇᴀᴋ, says the mouse. Don decides not to wonder how it manages to make noise with no lungs. He has a much bigger problem to worry about.

"Nath gave you that, did she?"

Carter nods happily. "She showed me her magic, dad! It's really cool! She was talking about the cycle of life and death and how zombies don't eat people unless you're really bad at taking care of them and how it's bad to be afraid of zeenos."

"...Zeenos?"

Carter nods seriously. "She said that people being afraid of zeenos is what makes Evil bad."

Maybe Zeenos are a drow thing.

"So you've been talking to her, have you?" _Miri, you said you didn't bring her!_

"Yeah, she's in town, by the chemist's. She's scaring cats. They don't like her very much."

"Cats are smart," Don says, without thinking. "Where's James and your sister? I thought you were playing dragons today."

"Alice wanted to help slay the dragon this time," Carter explains. "James is showing her how, but I wanted to talk to Nath."

Oh, gods... "Really?" he asks, trying to be as cheerful as possible. "What did you want to talk to her about? Zombies?" It was normal for little boys to be fascinated by zombies, right?

Carter shakes his head, and the solemnity in his young eyes gives Don pause. "I wanted to talk about being an adventurer," he says. "And about killing bad things. We were talking about what makes something Evil and what makes them bad, so I can make sure I help people right."

_That_ sets off warning bells.

* * *

**Dusk on the first day of the second week of the Claw of the Storms in the Year of the Worm.  
** **A forest in Cormyr.**

Their tiny campsite is, for the third night in a row, tense enough to snap.

Miri, huddled in a ball and avoiding eye contact with anyone, is trying to dry laundry and keep it from bursting into flames, which is harder than it sounds, especially in Kadek's case. He is in the process of soaking the rest of his clothes in alcohol, seemingly out of a desire to make the task physically impossible in future. Rennic had disappeared after saying something about a perimeter. Allerod seems to have taken over basic domestic duties, involving watching the fire and patching up cloaks, and Nath is cutting... something. Best not to wonder what, since the only thing even vaguely edible-looking they've seen in the past week was an adventuring party, and the meat is fresh. If the way she's stabbing it is any indication, it also seems to have personally offended her, another tally mark under that theory. She's ostensibly trimming the fat, but the look she gives the meat is the kind that might just cook it through without need for a fire after all, and Miri tries very hard not to think about who or what Nath might be imagining under that knife.

_If she's not careful, she's going to stab—_

Too late.

The knife clatters to the ground, and Nath is squeezing her left hand and wincing, and blood is dripping between her fingers, and before she has time to think about it Miri's snapped up an only-slightly-damp stocking of some sort and knelt beside her, taking hold of her injured hand.

She freezes suddenly, realises what she's doing; for a moment Nath stares at her like she's lost her mind, and then she's processed what's just happened and tries to pull away. She hisses in pain as Miri fails to release her hand in a timely fashion, her thumb catching the open wound.

"Sorry," Miri mutters. The apology is automatic, reflexive, and somehow it changes everything. The word hangs in the air, almost tangible, the forest itself holding its breath as something incredibly important shifts, balancing dangerously on a razor edge. The whole world seems acutely aware of its own heartbeat.

Waiting.

It's Miri who breaks the silence.

"...I'm sorry," she says again, quieter, wrapping the sock around Nath's palm, and there's a solemnity to the words that goes far deeper than a cut. "I didn't mean to hurt you." She keeps her eyes on the makeshift bandage, tying it off carefully. She doesn't actually need to hold Nath's hand any longer, but she doesn't let go.

"That does not change the fact that you did," Nath replies. "An accident is no less a cause of pain than malice."

"I know," she whispers, not looking up. "I'm sorry. I was just... trying to help."

"Perhaps you should ask permission before you 'help' again."

Allerod, sensing that something to the scene is more than it appears, has quietly set the cloak in his hands down in his lap to watch the pair. Careful green eyes flit back and forth—before a gruff, "Lad, are they drunk?" interrupts.

The metric tonnes of irony present in that question strike Allerod and then quietly leave, mercifully allowing the ranger to answer with a noncommital shrug.

"I _panicked_, Nath." Miri looks up, not quite defiantly, but very close. "I was scared, and I did the first thing that popped into my head, and it was a mistake, and I'm _sorry_." They glare at each other for several moments before Miri deflates, closing her eyes. When she opens them again, her voice is low and painful. "I can't take it back, Nath," she says miserably. "I would if I could, but I _can't_." There's a pause, her fingers ghosting over the back of Nath's bound hand, and she repeats softly, "I just wanted to help you."

"I don't want your help."

"You were in _pain_, Nath," she says. "You _needed _help." Nath tries to pull away in disgust, and Miri realises her mistake, grabbing her instinctively. "No! No, don't, please… please—Nath, I'm _sorry!"_ The desperate cry escapes before she can control it, the sound of something breaking deep inside and she realises she's on the verge of tears again, free hand clutching Nath's sleeve like a lifeline, not letting her leave. "What do you want me to say?" she asks brokenly. "I can't undo it but you _know _I didn't mean it, I know you do, I would never do _anything _to hurt you, Nath, I—" She cuts herself off abruptly, swallowing the rest of the sentence. "I'm sorry," she breathes, forcing herself to let go of the drow's robe. "I'm so sorry. It's not enough... please. Please, Nath." She bows her head miserably over Nath's bandaged hand, placing what may as well be a farewell kiss onto the delicate fingers. "Please... I'm sorry..."

Nath is still, frozen in an internal struggle, and her eyes are flitting from Miri, her hand, the knife, Miri again, Allerod (looking rather confused and more than a touch disapproving), the fire, and back to Miri. She pulls her hand away, fidgets for a moment in silence.

"I... I can't lose you," she murmurs, and Miri isn't even sure if she's not imagining it. Then, louder, "I can't cook with one hand."

"Really?" the priest of Clangeddin asks in one of the rare moments during which he is fully aware of his surroundings. "I learned a while back; lets me keep drinkin' with the other grubby paw."

"Perhaps you should keep that other grubby paw on the other bottle, Kadek. It's fallen over." And with that calm, simple observation to set the Dwarf grumbling and his attention away from the pair ahead, Allerod's hands go back to the cloak—though not so much his mind or ears.

Across the fire, Nath talks Miri carefully through the preparation of meat that is in no way a former adventuring party. Their conversation is awkwardly formal and keeps carefully to the subject of food, but they're talking again, sitting relatively comfortably together as opposed to hiding at opposite ends of camp refusing to make eye contact.

"And then rub it in those roots I've got powdered, right there... not _that_ much—!"

"Sorry, sorry..."

Miri hastily uses Nath's knife to scrape off some of the coating, glancing briefly at the drow and seeming reassured by what she finds. Sighing briefly, Nath reaches over with her good hand, placing it carefully over Miri's to try to demonstrate how to _not _ruin an evening's work with irresponsible application of seasoning. Miri goes still almost instantly at the gentle touch; she manages to pay attention for almost the length of a full sentence before her gaze wanders to Nath herself, who continues with her lecture for several more moments before realizing she's lost her audience.

Brown eyes glance up from a battered flask to peer toward the sudden silence. They catch a slight shake of Nath's head, and the ears vaguely attached to the slightly blurred vision register a short sigh just before some continuing babble in the Elven tongue. Kadek peers a moment longer, his mind working out that the pair had just been fighting but stopped, and then shrugs before looking back to the first of many drinks.

Allerod mends his cloak, sparing the pair only the briefest of glances, and smiles quietly to himself.

There's still tension between the two, but it's the kind of tension that always tends to work itself out, in the end; and if their hands brush more often than absolutely necessary, that's nobody's business but their own.

* * *

**Afternoon on the fourth day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The River Ashaba in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

It's alarmingly easy to find the drow: all he has to do is follow the impromptu procession of seemingly every arachnid in Freedale. She's sitting in an alleyway near the river, bloodstains on the ground, and an oversized spider is rubbing underneath her hand like a kitten.

"What are you doing here."

Nath doesn't flinch when he speaks, but her shoulders are tense, he can tell even through her heavy robes. "Talking to the citizens," she says, not turning around.

He looks around, and draws the only obvious conclusion. "You can... talk to spiders?" he asks. "Can all of you do that, or is it a... a magic thing?"

She turns around to look at him, and her eyes are worse than he remembered. "Neither." She turns back to the giant spider.

Don does not appreciate being ignored like this. "You've been talking to Carter," he accuses, brushing a trio of curious house spiders off his boot. "What have you been filling him with? Teaching him all about how your kind are just innocent and misunderstood?"

She laughs. "Drow are anything but innocent. As are humans."

It's a difficult point to argue, but still. "It's not exactly the same thing."

"How isn't it? Your race is not angelic by any stretch of the word. They commit countless crimes against one another. That's true for all races. How is mine any less redeemable than yours?"

"You're avoiding the question," Don points out, deciding not to get into the differences between the two races. "I want to know what you've been telling my son, who I'm positive I told you to stay away from."

"I've been telling him the _truth_, if you _must_ know, and if you've ever told me to keep away from him it was in no language I speak."

He looks at her for several heartbeats.

"I'm just trying to keep my family safe," he says finally, and he's surprised by the softness of his own voice. "I have a wife and kids, I take care of my mother, and most of the time I can't even be sure Miri's _alive_. And being with you isn't making her any safer."

"Isn't it? _Travelling minstrels_ aren't exactly renowned for their abilities in battle. Dark Mages, if they are known for anything, are known for that," she says severely. "I murdered my sister to save the life of yours. Do you honestly believe there is _anything _I wouldn't do for her?"

It's the second time that incident has been mentioned, and it's still not nearly as reassuring as they seem to find it. But then, on second thought, he realises Nath is not trying to reassure him. She's simply stating a fact. Well. Miri _could _certainly do worse than having a drow Mage for a bodyguard, but the way she looked at the... at Nath, when she thought nobody was looking, it wasn't just protection she needed from her. "So," he says cuttingly. "Is there anything you've done for her that _doesn't_ involve murder? Funnily enough, killing family members doesn't actually make me trust you."

"Well, I'm a _fantastic_ deterrent of drunken men in disreputable taverns," says Nath, and a twitch at the corner of her mouth might be a forced grin. "I don't need for you to trust me. Lolth's sake, _don't_. I'm dangerous. If you're willing to let your guard down for me, then you're no more than a fool, and you would die for it if it weren't for your sister. Only understand that I will _never_ cause her harm, and I will protect her from it so long as I live. In that, you have my word."

His gut reaction is to ask what the word of an Evil necromancer is worth; but for some reason, Don finds himself wanting, badly, to believe her. He wants to think that it is impossible to fake that level of intensity. But a race of demons—and that was, as he had pointed out furiously the other night, nothing more than the literal truth—generally mentioned in the same breath as succubi _can't _be trusted at face value. Not when the stakes are so high.

"And what makes her different from anyone else?" he demands. "Why would you protect her over your own blood, why's she so important? What do you want her for? I don't doubt you'll protect her life," he allows. "But you could make it a living hell for her without causing her any physical harm."

"I could," Nath allows, nearly graciously, as though she's letting a child win a game of chess. "But I won't."

"And how can I know that?"

"You can't," Nath says simply. "If I wanted to control her, I could do so. If I wanted her dead, she would be. If I wanted your sister in hell, I would simply _take_ her there. It's hardly outside my abilities."

"I imagine not." For a minute there, Don had been starting to trust her. Now, he's half-convinced this creature might very well murder his sister out of pure spite. "What are your abilities, exactly? I'm pretty sure they go a little beyond raising the dead."

Nath smiles calmly, and something in the base of his brain wants to hide. "What gave it away?" Tyr's sake, she sounds so _innocent_.

"The fact that you won't answer the question."

Nath nods, conceding his point. "My abilities are irrelevant beyond that they will not be used against your sister. Let me have my secrets."

"All you seem to _have _is secrets. Can you give me a straight answer just _once_?" Don is, admittedly, starting to get frustrated. Getting Nath to be forthcoming is like getting a brick wall to scoot over just a little bit.

"Just once," she smiles (and he will _never_ get used to that). "I suggest you make it a good question."

* * *

**Dusk on the first day of the second week of the Time of the Flowers in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The ports in Unthalass of Unther.**

The city of Unthalass is situated on the mouth of the River Alamber and the coast of the sea of the same name. It's a busy port, with exports ranging from silver to slaves, and with an almost entirely human population, their party sticks out more than a bit. Rennic and Allerod having left them to do whatever it is that they do when they aren't with the rest of the party doesn't really help, as their only human-passing members. Elves never come this far east, and Miri's pointed ears draw curious looks on the streets, even more than Nath's black cloak does—there's a decent halfling population here, and Unther has always been known for its mercenaries—and they are pink for it. Dwarves are also uncommon, but Kadek is oblivious enough to anything other than the tankard he'll soon have in hand not to notice, and he probably wouldn't care if he did.

The Cleric sees a tavern he finds acceptable, a shabby place the sign proclaims to be called The Dragon's Claw, and leaves the two women without as much as a goodbye.

"I give it an hour before he drinks their stores dry," says Miri.

Nath looks back at the tavern. "They seem popular enough. Maybe an hour and a half."

Miri glances up at the tavern's sign, memorising it—if nothing else, she's _very_ good at that. "Not our problem," she decides. "I just promised Al I'd make sure I knew where he was. Even _I_ have higher standards than that place."

Nath glances skeptically at her.

"Shut up," Miri grumbles.

They round a corner, stepping out of the shade of the buildings lining the streets, and Nath hisses reflexively and tugs her hood lower.

"You're not going to melt, Nath," Miri observes uncharitably. A moment later she sighs, looks around and angles them both down an alley between a pair of shops. "There. Better?"

"Thank you." Nath's reply is polite, but just a bit too formal, and Miri regrets her terseness. If this is what it feels like being stared at all the time, she thinks, it's a miracle Nath hasn't burned down every village they've passed through.

"Let's just go back to the inn," she decides. She'd been hoping to get a chance to look around, buy some actual food that wasn't the basic one-size-fits-all fare you found even in _good_ inns, maybe get herself a change of clothes. But the way this day's going, she just wants to go back to their room, lock themselves in and sleep until Allerod gets back from whatever it is he's doing.

They manage to wind their way back to the inn Al picked out with minimal exposure to sunlight; once again he's managed to find them a good one, though how he keeps being able to afford these places Miri has no idea. He certainly isn't doing it on what _she's_ making.

"Miria," Nath says carefully as they climbed the stairs. Miri tries not to be irritated by her tone. "You don't _have_ to stay here. You should… take a walk, or find a market, if you feel this restless."

Miri almost snaps at her before she reminds herself that her lack of sleep over the past few days is only peripherally Nath's fault, and that the drow certainly has nothing to do with her current feeling of uselessness. Miri _likes_ cities, she likes the bustle and the crowds and the constantly shifting people, but they're hell for a travelling minstrel to try to find a decent position, when she only has a matter of days available. City taverns want month commitments, weeks at the very least, and when she was _alone_ a place like Unthalass would have been perfect. _Everything_ is on her side, she could actually make herself rather comfortable here for a few months before her thrice-damned elven wanderlust kicked in. If she was alone.

She doesn't _want_ to be alone, really she doesn't, she's glad Nath's here. There are just trade-offs, when all of a sudden you're travelling with people who are better-off and more powerful than you'll ever be, and one of them is apparently a sense of self-sufficiency.

Small, soft hands squeeze hers, and she has no choice but to smile when Nath is forced to hop slightly in order to kiss her cheek.

"Sorry," she mutters, squeezing Nath's hand in return. She fumbles one-handed in a pocket and unlocks the door, holding the key between her teeth to open it. "I think I will take a walk later," she decides. "Or maybe just go downstairs and play a bit, I miss performing." She drops Nath's hand to cross the room and toss their room key into a drawer. "I mean, I appreciate Al's help, but…"

"Miri?" Nath says in what sounds like innocent total confusion. Miri turns around to find her with a hand on the air. The palm of it is pressed flat as if it's against glass. "Is this some phenomenon of the World Above, by any chance? Like rain?"

"Um," Miri says intelligently. She begins to say 'no', but then she notices movement in the corner of her eye and cries out in surprise instead.

Nath glances up at the ceiling and sighs. "Nine hells," she says perfunctorily.

Miri isn't paying much attention to the ceiling. She's more concerned with the man who has somehow turned up in the corner of their room, where he most definitely had not been a moment before. He's not _dressed_ like a Mage—a rough, worn plaid tunic and loose-fitting leggings, the laces on his boots lopsided and frayed, and his hair is wild and shaggier than any self-respecting Mage Miri's ever seen. He's taller and has a good deal more muscle than most wizards, as well, but despite his startlingly sudden appearance—an invisibility spell, she thinks, that he'd only dropped after they came into the room—he doesn't look like a threat. The man's big brown eyes are almost puppyish and he's holding his hands out soothingly, palms open.

Miri throws the bedside lantern at him.

She misses, of course, but while the stranger is yelping and jumping out of the way of an explosion of shattered glass Miri tries to make a run for the door. She trips and falls on… well, she's not sure what, really, until a moment later a second man is pulling himself with a not inconsiderable degree of difficulty from underneath the bed. He has on his arms and chest heavy plate armour, tarnished with overuse and under-maintenance. The sword he drags with him, however, is sparkling clean steel, heavy and visibly sharp, scarred with use but perfectly kept._This_ one Miri pegs as a mercenary immediately; he radiates both arrogance and paranoia in equal measures, his hair is close-cropped but it's been several days since he shaved, and there's a kind of coldness behind his eyes.

She edges back until she can tuck herself behind Nath, and then uses the wall to pull herself onto her feet.

Nath seems unconcerned. She clears her throat as the second man struggles to his feet, glancing over at the shaggy Mage who has yet to move from the corner. "Not to be indelicate," she says lightly, "But what are you _wearing_—_"_

"Why the fuck didn't the trap work, Seth?" snaps the man from under the bed.

The Mage gives him an incredulous look. "What do you mean, why didn't it work? It worked perfectly! Hell, _I _almost got stuck in it earlier!"

Nath coughs lightly, and in lieu of translating Miri mutters "Trap?"

"Copfe," Nath says, pointing upwards.

Miri squints at the ceiling, and sure enough there's a barely-visible outline of some large, circular symbol on the flaking white panels. "Can you break it?"

Nath glances up at her, places a hand against her forehead like she's measuring herself, looks up at the ceiling and gives a sarcastic little hop.

Miri shoots her a dirty look. "You could have just said _no_."

Nath inclines her head obligingly.

"Oh, go to hell, Darrell! Maybe it didn't work because she might not be Evil, have you even thought to _check_? It's not like you don't have freakin' _Evil-vision_ or anything!"

"Of course I checked! She's low-level, her aura was totally lost under the drow's, but she's definitely Evil!"

The Mage, Seth, stares. "Miss Scuttleleaf, do you mind stepping away from Nathcyrl for a second?" He pronounces Nath's name correctly, which makes him the first human outside of their party to pull it off. Miri is absently impressed.

The two interlopers have been speaking Common, so Nath hasn't been able to understand their squabbling, which Miri feels vaguely jealous for. At the sound of her name, she looks up at the mage again, and says something that Miri doesn't understand. She hopes it's not as threatening as it sounds, although that might be a weak hope seeing as it sounds a lot like demonic screeching. She hopes it's not threatening.

Seth shifts uncomfortably before responding in the same language, and Nath actually _giggles_.

"What'd you tell her?" Darrell demands sharply. "Do you _know _this thing?"

Seth stuttered over an explanation of favoured souls and reputations, but Darrell wasn't really listening. "Forget it. Is this the right one?"

"Well _she's_ not," Seth exclaims, gesturing at Miri. "She's not even Evil enough to trigger the trap!"

"Chaotic Neutral," Miri protests. They both ignore her. "Nath, what's going _on?_"

"The copfe keeps Evil magic—and people—contained within its bounds," says Nath. "It works the other way around, too; if I were outside of the circle and you were within it, any spell I cast at you would be deflected by it."

Miri reaches out to test the barrier; her hand doesn't find anything but air. "Are we in trouble?"

"Well, this trap has been modified to be stronger than most; generally I can bypass the runes easily enough, they're not able to contain Epic magic, but—"

"That's enough plotting," says Darrell harshly.

"They're not plotting," Seth begins to argue, but a glare from his cohort shrivels the words on his tongue.

"She's confused," he mutters. "She just doesn't know what's going on. Sorry my brother's a dick," he says pointedly to Miri, and even more pointedly in Elven. "Don't worry, none of this is your fault."

Darrell actually throws his hands up in exasperation, and Seth hurriedly translates.

"Throwing your lot in with a drow is a pretty damn clear statement, if you ask me."

"Good thing I didn't ask you, then," Miri says. And then, petulantly, "_Chaotic Neutral."_

Darrell grinds his teeth, and for a moment Miri thinks he might hit her, steps back again until she's partially inside the circle and she can feel Nath's sleeve brushing against hers. Then the man raises his hands in surrender and sighs, stepping back.

"Fine," he says. "_Fine_. I believe you. All right?" He lowers his hands carefully, glancing at Nath. "If she's… forcing you to work with her, or something, we'll protect you, I promise. We don't harm innocents."

Seth seems to find something funny about this declaration, laughing into the back of his hand. Miri only feels anger, bitter and hot inside of her, and she hates how _useless_ she is, just some fifth-level Bard surrounded by people who could kill her without breaking a sweat, and she can't do a thing about it.

"C'mon," Darrell says with a lopsided, friendly grin, holding out a hand encouragingly. "You seem like a sweet girl… uh—"

"Miri," sighs Seth.

"Yeah," Darrell agrees. "This isn't about you. Just go over to my brother, this'll all be like a bad dream soon."

She's almost not sure he's actually serious; Miri doesn't know whether to laugh out loud or be furious, but she certainly doesn't move.

Darrell stares at her uncomprehendingly.

"...You can get out of the way now," he says.

Miri raises an eyebrow. It's not nearly as condescending as when Nath does it, but then again it's extremely difficult to be as condescending as Nath. Miri's half-certain she took lessons on it in her youth.

Darrell's impatience is back in full force. The sword comes up, wavering back and forth slightly with worrying casualness; Miri gets the feeling that the Remingtons make something of a habit of holding swords in people's faces. "I'm trying to help you here," he snaps. He swipes the sword in a gesture of exasperation that nearly takes Miri's nose off, or at least that's what it feels like. She backs up further, grabbing Nath's wrist and holding the drow behind her. There's not very far to back up to; the circle is a small one.

"I'm sure you're very helpful to people who do everything you say," she says quietly. It's suddenly struck her exactly how much danger she and Nath are both in. "I don't need your help."

"You wanna die for her?" Darrell demands, jabbing his sword forward enough that it pricks Miri's skin just above her collarbone. "Because let me tell you, whatever she's promised you? It's not worth it. Quit while you're ahead, kid."

"I'm twice your age," Miri informs him flatly.

"I spent thirty years in hell."

When Miri translates this for Nath, the drow asks "Which one?", sounding a bit more amused than Miri is entirely comfortable with. She deigns not to inform Darrell of the response.

Seth rolls his eyes from the corner. "Darrell," he says, sounding a bit disgusted. "Stop it, she hasn't done anything wrong." His eyes flick between Nath and Miri—registering Miri's protective stance, the way Nath's hand rests on Miri's arm, how they move around each other without thinking—and looks miserable. "Look, just… we don't need to do this, they're not hurting anyone—"

"Nearly twenty people are dead, Seth! And that's just the ones we _traced_!"

"It was self-defense—how many people have tried to kill _us_ and lived to tell about it? Good people, even, I _know_ you killed those Paladins who were after me. How is what they're doing any different?"

"Wow, I don't know, Seth, maybe we didn't _eat their flesh._"

Seth mumbles something in Elven about how drinking their blood isn't much different, which Miri would probably have found very worrying a year ago but now doesn't even ring even the smallest bell of alarm.

"I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about," Nath says calmly, "But you can't torture yourself for doing what you _need to _to survive. There's no shame in it."

"Thanks," Seth mutters, then coughs awkwardly at the look his brother is giving him. It's somewhere between incredible exasperation and apoplectic rage, and Seth glances down and backs into his corner again.

"All right, all right, enough!" Darrell rounds on his brother, finally letting the point of his sword drop and moving it away from Miri's neck. She runs a hand over the base of her throat, and her fingers come away smeared with a thin rivulet of blood. "We came here to do a job, not so you can gossip with demons. Now, _I'm_ gonna do my job." He twirls the sword in a deadly arc, securing his grip and turning back to the circle, and if Miri had thought his eyes were cold before she'd had no idea. "Unless you want your _girlfriend _to get hurt, Seth, I'd get her the hell out of the way."

Seth starts forward almost on reflex, but a look at Miri's face has him backing off. Darrell growls and grabs her by the arm, pulling her out of the circle. It's like he's forgotten he's holding a sword in his right hand, and she's horribly aware of how it flails while she fights against him, but she can hardly _stop_. Finally, inevitably, she tries to plant her foot for traction and the blade slices deep through the muscle of her calf. Her leg collapses under her in a flood of white-hot pain, and she's thrown off-balance and toward Seth as she falls to the floor.

For a moment she thinks Darrell threw her, tries to push herself up at least onto her knees for all the good it'll do, except then part of the ceiling caves in and she realises what's going on.

Nath's eyes, always bright, are glowing as if they're burning embers as wind with no point of origin whips against her robes. The shadow she casts is that of a giant, monstrous spider. Magic sparks red all around her, and Miri thinks distractedly that it looks like demonic fireflies. She's speaking, not loudly, but Infernal needn't be loud to get its point across. It echoes and falls into tones no living creature should be able to reach, clashes with itself, slithers into the ears like a living thing, and Miri _knows_ what she's saying. It's not a spell or some ancient curse from before even magic itself, but, surreally, a skipping song (Miri had never imagined young demons skipping rope before, but neither had she imagined young demons). The magic circle, or what's left of it, is splintered on the remnants of the ceiling, neatly bisected by the raw, gaping fissure that has opened up across what looks like half the city. One side of the new fault line is at least three feet further East than it had been a minute before.

"Nath," She tries to call out, but it comes out barely above a whisper.

The swirling wind has reached a fever pitch, kicking up thick black smoke that flickers with furious tongues of scarlet lightning, leaving burn marks on the walls as Nath walks slowly up to Darrell. Every time a fork of lightning flashes over her face it throws an angry shadow on the pieces of wall that are still intact; the shadow is that of a massive, monstrous spider, and that in itself would be enough to put Miri's heart in her throat. Nath's chanting is all the more terrifying for its innocence, it feels _wrong_, the wind and the smoke are making Miri's eyes sting and she's never seen this kind of cruel joy on Nath's face before and it's _wrong._

"Nath," she says desperately. "Nath, you're _scaring me_."

Nath freezes, and the deafening roar and crackle of the demonic lightning stop dead. The wind makes one last whistling twist around her before fading into an almost-natural breeze, the last echoes of the poem wasting away as the choking black smoke sinks into the nothingness it had sprung from; but the fire is still in her eyes, her shadow still isn't _hers_, and Miri is terrified as Nath crouches down next to her on the floor, looking at her in concern.

His wits regained now that Nath's back is turned, Darrell goes for his now-bloodied sword. Without looking away from Miri's face, Nath raises her hand toward him and orders something, her voice thick with the magic imbued in the words of power. He collapses face-first to the floor.

"Darrell!" Seth shouts. The fissure in the ground has him separated from his brother and there are large, broken pieces of ceiling piled atop him, but it seems like any wounds he has are superficial at best, and he's less trapped than he is inconvenienced.

"Leave him," Nath says in quiet Elven, reaching up to cup Miri's cheek.

Miri flinches away; she feels a slight twinge of guilt for the hurt look on Nath's face but she's in pain and her head is swimming and she's not at all certain who she's looking at anymore. "Nath," she stutters, "Nath, what did you—"

"Sleeping spell. Hush now, it's alright. You're safe. And so are you," Nath adds, looking at Seth. "You should escape while you have the chance."

Seth tries to argue, but she cuts him off. "He's a Paladin," she says, "if not for long. He's not trustworthy, and will be even less when he falls. Who do you think he'll blame for that, if not you? Your brother _will_ kill you, Seth Remington, if you give him the chance. Don't."

He hesitates, and doesn't argue with her as he frees himself from the rubble of the ceiling.

"Do you have somewhere to go?" Nath asks.

"Yeah," says Seth, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "There's this— there's a demon I know. She's… nice."

"Good." Nath glances pointedly at his snoring brother.

"Oh, right," Seth says, and jumps over the fault line. He leans down to grab Darrell by the ankles, nods at them, and drags the unconscious paladin toward the recently-opened hole in the wall, which is currently more convenient than the door, as the doorway is filled with rubble. Darrell's face drags over a series of sharp splinters; Miri, dizzy and weak and covered in blood, cannot honestly pretend she cares. He stops just at the opening, and adds "Ring a Ring 'O Roses, though? _Really_?"

Nath shrugs, and turns her attention back to Miri. She whispers the incantation for what Miri knows is Cure Light Wounds, the only healing spell she knows, as she holds her cradled in her arms. Miri can feel her skin knitting back together; it still _hurts _but not as much, the sharpest pain fading away, and at least she's no longer in danger of dying of blood loss before someone finds Kadek. Her whole life spent struggling to find material to write a good ballad, and someone _else_ would get her bleeding out tragically in her cross-alignment lover's arms, handed to them on a silver platter? She's staying alive out of pure spite. It's also possible she's lost a little more blood than is necessary for rational thought.

All of that is distant to the look of adoration and worry in Nath's dimmed eyes. "Shiny," she says.

"I love you too," Miri replies, and leans up to kiss her.

* * *

**Dusk on the fourth day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Thatcher House in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

"...and this I picked up in Silverymoon."

Carter takes the slightly scuffed rock reverently, turning it over in his hands. "Wow," he breathes. "This rock travelled further than I have! Thank you!"

Nath leans over to mutter into Miri's ear. "Didn't you pick that rock up on the way over—"

Miri elbows her.

"I couldn't think what to get you, Alice, you're growing so fast—but if you like, we can go shopping one of these days. I'd love to spend the time with you."

Alice glows. "I'd love to!" she squeals. "I missed you_ so_ mu—AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Everyone in the room, even Nath, jumps at her sudden shriek, and the quiet, homey little scene erupts into absolute pandemonium. Alice is leaping around, spinning in erratic circles and screaming "GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!" like she's being murdered; her mother is trying to grab her before she kills someone, Kat and Don are trying bewilderedly to ask what's wrong, and Carter is leaping around his sister, yelling "Don't hurt him! Don't hurt him!" while Miri wonders what, exactly, is going on.

The chaos finally resolves itself when Carter breaks away from the group, cradling something cupped between his hands; Alice stops screaming, jumping onto the couch and pulling her feet off the floor, and all eyes turn to her brother.

"You didn't have to scare him," Carter cries. "He just wanted to say hello!"

"What _is _that?" Alice demands.

"It's Marvin!" Carter says, clutching the thing to his chest. "He's my mouse, and I won't let you hurt him!"

"Calm down, Carter," Lynn says reasonably. "Is he hurt?"

Carter looks whatever's cupped in his hands over carefully. "No," he says finally. "But he wasn't going to hurt her, and she scared him!"

"Carter..."

"He wasn't!" Carter insists defensively. "Look! He's a _good_ mouse!" He holds the quivering creature out for inspection.

"Carter..." Lynn says slowly, "That's a skeleton."

"He got eaten," Carter explains, stroking the mouse's skull gently. "But he's better now. Nath said I could keep him if I took care of him!"

Alice leans in curiously. "He's... kind of cute," she says doubtfully.

Marvin sits up and sniffs the air in her most fetching manner, winking an eye-light.

"Aww!" Alice coos. "Mum, look at him! Look at his little _bones!"_ Carter grins and holds Marvin closer, and Alice pets her head tentatively. She looks pleased and proud when Marvin doesn't bite. "I think he likes CARTER GET IT OFF!"

Seeing a disaster in the making, Carter darts forward and scoops Marvin off his sister's head, setting her carefully back on his shoulder where she squeaks in confusion. "I can keep him, right?" he pleads. "He's really nice, and he doesn't bite, and he won't nibble on things or poop everywhere because he doesn't eat, and I really, _really_ like him!" He looks near tears.

Don and Lynn share a look and shrug. "Of course you can keep him," Don says reassuringly. "Just keep him away from your sister if she doesn't want him around, understand?"

Carter nods fervently. "He will! I promise! Won't you, Marvin?" Marvin considers it for a moment, cocking her head, then nods firmly and nuzzles Carter's ear.

"There," Katerina says contentedly. "Congratulations on your new friend, Carter. Miri, weren't you going to tell Carter how you joined your party? He was asking about it earlier."

Miri laughs. "Give me a rest!" she protests. "I swear I do more entertaining _here_ than on the road. And you're all lousy tippers, to boot!"

"Why don't _you _tell us?" Alice suggests with a shy glance at Nath, tentatively lowering her feet back to the ground. Seeming reassured when Marvin doesn't rush over to maul them, she picks up the bit of flowery embroidery she'd been working on.

Nath turns to just _look _at Miri, an expression which says far more than words ever could.

* * *

**Moondark on the fifth day of the second week of the Rotting in the Year of the Harp.  
** **A Disreputable Inn in Proskur of the Dragon Coast.**

There's a brief, sharp sting at the contact of Nath's lips on hers, like the shocks children like to give each other in the winter, and Miri licks her lips reflexively. Otherwise, she doesn't move, keeping a slightly shocked eye on Nath. A question hangs in the air, but she seems to have lost the ability to articulate it. Nath takes the silence as consent, or at least not blatant non-consent—it's not all that difficult to say "no", after all—and so kisses her again.

There is no shock at the contact this time, and it is slower, more... playful, almost, though Miri hesitates to use the word to describe the unknown creature. After a few seconds of rather pleasant shock, a few neurons fire again in her brain, and she puts a hand on Nath's shoulder and pushes her back. "Is not good for you to do this," she says gently. "You are to be upset. Would be bad, later. Like to eat too many sweet. Regret after. I am not wanting to hurt."

Nath twists her arms so that Miri's no longer distancing them, says, "You would not to hurt," and reinitiates contact.

Miri breaks away almost immediately, leaning away from her. "Is not to be wise," she says firmly. "You are to be... confused. Hurt. This idea is not good."

Nath looks inexplicably humoured by this. "_I_ am to be confused? You are half-elf thinking it is goblin!"

Miri is mildly offended at the implication. "It's not _my _fault you don't speak my tongue," she says in Elven with as much dignity as possible. "And Goblin is to be a useful language, thank you very much!" Switching back to Goblin, she mutters "See? Is not kind, to be speaking strange tongue in front of other."

Nath stares at her, and makes the universal symbol for "idiot", the palm of her hand acting to her forehead as a stone on a lake, and says, in perfectly fluent, if accented, Elven: "Now you tell me."

Miri stares.

"You... you... _All this time_ I've been talking about cherry pancakes and you spoke _Elven_?!"

"I'm a Mage," Nath says simply. No other explanation is needed: grimoires were almost exclusively written in the Elven tongue.

"You _knew _I was a half-elf," Miri persists, the indignity of cherry pancakes visibly smarting. "Why didn't you just speak Elven to begin with?"

"Don't your people consider it rude to change the language in the midst of conversation? Mine do." It's amazing, startling really, what the shift in language has done for her in the space of a few seconds. Nath suddenly seems secure, collected, utterly in control; nothing like the frightened, victimised little thing she had been.

Unable to dispute the point, especially against a suddenly disarmingly-eloquent whatever-Nath-is, Miri resorts to glaring. Her glare, she tries to assure her wounded ego, would be much more effective if it weren't facing flat, glowing red eyes. For a few seconds, the conversation consists solely of incomprehensible muttering about breakfast foods.

"So who are your people, anyway?" she asks eventually, curiosity getting the better of her. "I've never seen anything like you."

The creature-which-would-soon-have-a-name looks at Miri oddly, or at least seems to—Miri doesn't know anything about Nath's kind's expressions—and says, slowly, as though she were a child, "The drow."

Suddenly, the room seems at least ten times darker, and Miri is acutely aware of the exact distance between herself and her... new friend. "I—" She swallows with difficulty. "Oh. I... thought you'd be taller."

Nathcyrl looks at her blankly, the sort of blankness a gambler uses, and says in a monotone, "It is not shameful to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid of you," Miri replies weakly.

A flat sort of sarcasm. "And I'm Elistraee."

"Who's..." Miri cuts herself off, shaking her head irritably. "You don't scare me," she repeats with very little conviction, standing up and crossing the room to lean against the opposite wall. This provides less of a buffer than she would have preferred; the room is very far from spacious. "You already said you wouldn't hurt me. If you were going to, you would have already."

"Mhm." The bolt on the door turns, apparently of its own volition. "And now?"

Miri watches her for a cluster of heartbeats before crossing warily to the door and trying the bolt. It doesn't budge.

"Oh no. I broke it."

For the first time, Miri realises that she may have made a deadly serious mistake.

"Afraid now, then?" The drow wears a sardonic grin, looking positively demonic. "Good."

"What do you _want_?" There is an almost desperate undertone to the question this time.

"I've had eight hours of... relative quiet, so, as you may have noticed, I have spells again." Her voice is cheerful. And she's avoiding the question.

"Ah... congratulations." Miri glances at the door again, then starts to sidle casually back along the far wall. "Always happy to help. You can keep the scarf, of course."

"I do, actually, keep my word, when I am able," says Nath. "I would not be able, I fear, if you tried to use your flame." She nods to the candle, not bothering to hide her discomfort at looking near it.

Miri freezes, trying to act like she hadn't been headed for the candle. She glances between Nath and the light; then, holding one hand up placatingly and moving with exaggerated slowness, continues toward the latter.

Nath watches her, and says, so quietly that Miri isn't even sure she really hears it, that it's not just her imagination, "I don't _want _to hurt you." Quiet as it might have been, Miri notices the emphasis.

Almost as quietly, she replies, "And they charge for candles here." Reaching down, Miri picks up the light, taking care to keep it hidden behind the table, and blows it out. She can't help but stiffen reflexively as the room goes black, half-expecting an instant attack now that her last feeble protection is gone.

"A very wise move," says the darkness, with the voice of Nathcyrl. "And I answer your question with one of my own: what are you hoping for me to want?"

There's a brief silence as she considers it. "Something that doesn't involve lethal injury would be nice. Actually," she corrects herself hurriedly, "I'd like to avoid injury altogether. If you need fairly high-quality wood polish, I can help with that..."

"I prefer to avoid killing acquaintances. They might prove _useful_..."

Miri takes a step back, bumping into the corner. "Where are you?" she asks sharply; the drow's voice has moved, and her eyes have yet to adjust to the darkness.

"I'm right here," says the darkness, helping not at all. It has moved again.

"Stop that!"

"I shouldn't think you are in a position to make demands, love."

"Don't—!" Miri cuts herself off, rubbing her arms distractedly and trying to tell different patches of black apart from one another. "...call me that," she finishes, muttering under her breath.

"Demands again?" Miri jerks backwards; the drow's voice is whispered in her ear. _How did she _do _that? _

There is, unfortunately, nowhere to move backwards_ to_; Miri's backed herself into a corner, and she can only shiver at the feel of Nath's breath over her skin. The drow is breathing rhythmically, and slowly, unhurried and unconcerned. There's a languid pause as she considers something, and then her tongue flicks over Miri's ear, base to tip, the pressure so light it might not have been there at all. Miri's face and ears flush red, and certain parts of her become incredibly alive. She had never really understood, so much, why that happened; her ears weren't really all that much more sensitive than the rest of her, most of which could generally be touched without fear of arousal.

"Don't..." Miri breathes, swallowing hard. "I—what..."

She can almost _feel _Nath's amusement as she tries to put together a coherent protest (and polite, she can't forget that, Evil creature, mage, definitely wise to avoid angering her so why isn't she afraid, really?) But when the drow speaks, she's taken aback by her voice.

"Is that what you want?"

It's... not soft, not exactly, and Nath _does_ sound more amused than anything else, murmuring the question with lips teasingly dancing across her ear. But at the same time she's paused, waiting patiently, and Miri gets the distinct impression that if she were to say _yes_, _please, stop_, she would do it.

_I don't _want_ to hurt you._

And she really _should _say yes, this is a terrible idea on a number of levels and Miria Scuttleleaf is an intelligent, rational semi-human being, so of course she says absolutely nothing and Nath smiles and tilts her head and very, very carefully closes her teeth over the edge of Miri's ear.

Unable to stop a tiny whimper at the unexpected sensation, Miri ducks her head and squirms away, angling herself more firmly into the corner in an attempt to bring the sensitive ear-tips out of range. Nath is not at all bothered by her actions—Miri wonders what would prompt a person to this, after what she suspects might have landed the drow in her room to begin with—and, unable to reach the top of her ear now, plays with Miri's earlobe with her tongue.

Miri tries, she really does, to remember what she was saying before—at least, she can't help but feel there was some point she wanted to make—but is distracted by the fact that her body seems to have found more interesting things to do all on its own. Nath is working her way back up her ear, and before Miri has time to remember why, exactly, this is a bad idea she's already dipped her head obediently, granting the drow easier access. Her hands are suffering an existential crisis, unsure of what to do with themselves; they alternate between clenching against the wall, fluttering halfway up as if to wave at something, and repeating the cycle. Finally, they settle on a compromise as she presses loose fists against Nath's collarbone, fighting over whether to shove her away or pull her closer. Nath is running her teeth along the side of her ear now, not using any pressure, and _oh gods _the curving edge of it is so very sensitive, and a helpless moan escapes before she can stop it.

She feels the drow smile, repeat the motion. "Do you like that?"

Not trusting herself to speak, she nods jerkily; more of a neck spasm than a nod, actually, but it's the best she's capable of. She clenches her fists tighter—they've decided on grabbing, it would seem—to stop them from shaking. The drow continues on with the treatment of her ear, and slips a hand under her blouse. Her skin is cool to the touch, fingers running feather-light down Miri's spine.

Concentrating very hard on holding her breathing to something in the line of a pattern, Miri forces her hands to open, resting them flat against Nath's shoulders; the drow's questing fingertips, moving from her spine to follow the curve of her ribcage, brush a particularly sensitive spot, and Miri hisses in a long breath, twitching her head to the side. She hides her face somewhere around Nath's temple, seeking some form of relief from the teasing against that one painfully alive ear.

Without missing a beat, Nath moves from Miri's ear to the side of her neck, burying her free hand in Miri's hair. One of Miri's hands slips up from Nath's shoulder to curl around the back of her neck, fingers winding themselves into the pale curls, pulling the drow closer. _She really is tiny_, part of Miri's short-circuited brain manages to think dimly. As if to prove the point, her thumb reaches up, slipping under the edge of the thin scarf to brush against a long, pointed ear.

The effect is nigh instantaneous, the drow taking in an unsteady breath, faltering somewhat in her ravishing of Miri's neck. She trembles slightly, and Miri wonders if that wasn't the right thing to do; but within a second she's recovered and returned to Miri's neck, tongue creating a suction against her skin. Miri's grip tightens in time with the sensation, thumb moving more firmly against the far tip of Nath's ear, rubbing it between her fingers like a coin. Her free hand drifts to the clasp of Nath's robe.

"No," says Nath, and she pins Miri's hand to the wall.

Miri goes still, peers somewhat blearily down at her. "Sorry," she murmurs, the hand that had been caressing Nath's ear drifting back down to its owner's side. "I didn't..." she trails off, sounding almost hurt.

Nath looks up at her, oversized eyes oddly expressive, and she slips the knot herself. "You'll tear it," she mutters, and the tie falls to the ground.

Miri looks at her oddly, as best she can in the dark; after a few seconds, she raises both hands, hooking the tips of her fingers under Nath's scarf and tucking it carefully behind her ears. "Shiny," she muses with an almost-grin; and then, very softly, she whispers in Goblin, "Am not to hurt." A gentle kiss to the forehead. "Promise."

"I know," replies Nath, and she backs out of the corner.

Miri looks worried, takes a single step after her and stops.

"Nath...?"

Her head tilts. "Yes,_ usst'akor_?" The second word Miri doesn't recognise, but the sound of it sets something deep inside her simmering. The drow holds out a hand; a pianist's fingers wrap around her own. "Come," says Nath, leading her out of the corner of the room. It isn't large, not at all, so that at only a few steps, they're at the foot of the bed. Miri sinks carefully onto the edge of the mattress, hand still loosely entwined with Nath's smaller one. Unexpectedly, unaccountably shy, she drops a butterfly kiss onto the slim black fingers.

Nath slips the robe off of her shoulders, and sits next to Miri on the bed. She's wearing a sort of shift, now: a thin, inexpensively made secondary robe. It's a colorless thing, not designed to be pretty, and that's probably good, because if it were, then the patching it desperately needs would ruin it. A tear at the bottom, coming up the most of her leg. Stains of varying colour, which Miri doesn't really want to think about. At least one is blood.

Having taken a moment to take this all in, Miri looks back up at Nath, questioning. She takes her hand again, squeezing gently, saying nothing. She waits. Nath watches her with an equal interest for a moment, and leans forward, kissing her softly.

And they start over.

Tense nerves and desperation, present in the beginning, slowly surrender to exploration that's almost gentle, skirts tender for a moment until Nath discovers what happens when she does _this,_ chuckling against Miri's throat as she gasps for breath. Once or twice she hesitates, goes very still again, and the bard tries to ask what's wrong, if she can help—

The answer to the first never comes, and Nath finds ways of cutting off the second before it can be fully articulated. Miri tries to return the favours—honest attempts, however stumbling—but the drow always seems to be three steps ahead before she can get her mind around _by the gods how did you do that _and finally her head's been spun so many times around, she's been taken apart and put back together and they're back where they started.

Soft. Dark. Skin on skin.

_It's all right._

Nath plays her fingers in a complicated pattern against Miri's abdomen, drawing invisible little glyphs on her skin. She whispers something in her native language, a beautifully musical prosody in the speech. Miri recognises only the final word: _usst'akor._

She stirs slightly, looking up at the drow with a sleepy sort of wonder. "What was that?" she murmurs, absently brushing a stray curl off Nath's forehead; the scarf had disappeared at some point, and is probably around if either of them had cared enough to look for it.

"A verse from the Kultar," says Nath, as she pushes up onto one arm to kiss Miri's forehead. "Sleep now."

"Mmm." Miri mumbles something noncommittal as she bullies her pillow into a comfortable position, resting her head against Nath's shoulder.

She really hopes the mattress isn't sentient, she thinks absently as she drifts off. Otherwise, they probably owe it an apology.

_At the very least, we should charge it for the show._

* * *

**Dusk on the fourth day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Thatcher House in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

"Well," Nath begins, smiling prettily at Miri's expression of dawning horror, "your aunt was working at this tavern, just outside Silverymoon, where our party had stopped for the night."

Miri clears her throat warningly, and tries to recreate one of Nath's more soul-withering glares. It doesn't work. She blames the eyes.

When Nath continues, though, entirely ignoring her, it's with a story she doesn't recognise, and most definitely did not live through.

"We had come in quite late in the evening, and she was already tiring from playing, but was beautiful all the same. The tavern was very hot, so that you felt as though you were in the desert sun rather than a room, and she was sweating. She had already removed her overblouse. I was mesmerised by the sight of her—I had never seen a half-elf before—and, I must admit, I may have been staring."

"Nath..."

She waves away the admonition distractedly—coming up with suitably cheesy lies requires her full attention. "I watched her for what must have been only a minute, but may have been an hour for the clarity with which I can see it even now in my mind's eye. I assume then that she felt my gaze upon her, because she turned to me, even as I was on the other side of the room, and in the shadows."

Part of Miri cringes and dies at this blatant disregard for anything resembling narrative integrity. A larger part, however—the part that knows how to work a crowd—can recognise a skillful job when she sees it. Carter, Marvin the Zombie Mouse on his shoulder, is watching her with his mouth hanging slightly open, but that's nothing compared to his sister. A wide-eyed Alice has completely forgotten her roses and is hanging raptly on Nath's every word, leaning forward far enough that she's at immediate risk of falling off the couch.

"It was," continues the drow, "as though there was a thread drawing us together, and I fancied a spark as our eyes met. She then put down her instrument—what is it called, again, my love?"

"It's a lute, Nath," she replies flatly.

"Of course; a lute," says Nath, and kisses Miri on the cheek. "Thank you, dear. But yes, she puts down the lute, and says to the other bard working there that she was feeling quite parched, and was it alright if she could get something to drink? I have good hearing," she adds, "but not nearly so good as that, and I do not speak the language besides—I am only assuming this must have been the gist of what she said to him, for as he eased into a song of his own, she had gone to the bar. I became worried then, for what if she had felt the same connection, and had been put off by it? I was, after all, no more than a cloaked figure wreathed in the shadows, and anyone might be afraid of that, especially as I _had _been staring, and every girl is warned by her mother of people such as I appeared to be. But I could not remove my cowl, for my race—something which might have put a fear into her more than any cloak. Needless to say, I became very self-conscious in those few moments, more than I had ever been before."

Miri is starting to wonder how Nath is keeping a straight face, while she herself is struggling against outright laughter. Don is staring at her in a way that makes her suspect he might very well be regretting his sudden change of heart regarding Nath, and her mum is looking at the floor as though it's a very interesting sort of sculpture, the sort that you have to stare at for ages before you have even the slightest idea of what it might actually be a sculpture _of_.

"I needn't have worried, though, as she began then to walk towards me, holding two glasses of a grape wine."

Alice, almost visibly glowing, beams at her aunt before turning back to Nath, completely enraptured by the fantasy.

"When she neared me, I averted my eyes, feeling worried again. What would she think of me? I wondered, as surely she was expecting for me to have been some mysterious benefactor, looking to form a group of adventurers for some arduous quest on which the weight of the world itself hung. As it was, I had no real mission of great importance, only a search for an artefact, which, while powerful, would not cause the end of the world in a case of whether it was found or not. I sought only information; no more, no less."

"What were you looking for?" asks Carter, brightening up considerably at this mention of adventure. "What'd it do? Did you find it?" He's quickly shushed by his sister, who's still watching Nath with starry-eyed fascination.

Nath, however, looks somewhat heartened by the respite from the tale. "No, we haven't found it yet, though I should think we are coming nearer to it with each moment that passes. We search for the ancient Throne of the Gods, lost since time immemorial, cloaked in such strong magics that it cannot be found by any simple means. All attempts at locating it through magic have failed, and any former record of it has erased itself."

Carter is visibly brimming with questions at this, and Miri tries to crush Nath's foot as subtly as possible.

"It is said that it was the very seat the Overgod inhabited, before it was lost in the wars with the Obyrith demons, and that any god which might sit at it would gain his power. But enough on that; your sister, I think, would like to return to our earlier topic. I'm sure we can find the time to discuss this later, though, if you would like." She gives an amiable smile, not appearing even slightly annoyed, and Miri might start clapping. Carter's eyes are the size of wagon wheels; he couldn't have looked more awed if he were being told the story by the Overgod himself.

"As I was saying before," Nath continues, "I had become quite worried. But there was not anything that could be done about it at that point, and so I steeled myself for her disappointment, and gave a greeting in the Elven tongue. She was visibly surprised at this, both the language and my accent," and Miri suddenly realises that she's been playing up said accent, "but she did not falter despite it, and pulled up a chair at the nearest empty table, asking me if I would join her there. And how could I have refused, I ask, for she was such a beautiful creature, in body as much as spirit, and her aura was a calming sort of thing, so that I could feel it as my worries became little more than an aside, in their importance."

Alice coos delightedly. Don rolls his eyes. Miri takes a series of slow, deep breaths and counts carefully backwards from twenty, avoiding eye contact like the various plagues.

"I kissed her hand before taking the seat across from her, as is proper, and there was a spark at the contact, one which we both felt and cannot, to this day, explain. From there, I am afraid, not much can be said. We found ourselves before long to be lost in..." and there's a pause as, ostensibly, she searches for the correct word. "..._conversation_, and were still at the dawn."

Alice gives a long, dreamy sigh. "That's so _romantic_!" Struck by a thought, she asks rapturously, "Did she sing for you? She has _such_ a pretty voice."

"I suppose," says the drow carefully, "that is one way of putting it."

Miri buries her head in her hands. The tips of her ears are a rather impressive shade of red.

"Hit a few high notes, Miri?" Don, in the ancient tradition of brothers, is visibly torn between righteous indignation and slightly-less-righteous sadistic amusement.

"I hate you."

Alice cocks her head, innocently confused. "What do you mea—"

"All right then!" Lynn leaps to her feet with slightly manic cheerfulness, throwing her husband an impressively dangerous-looking glare. "Time for bed. Both of you. Ah... _now_."

"But I had a question!" Carter protests. "Can't we just wait a sec—"

"No! No more secs!"

Miri, head still buried in her hands, gives a tiny shriek. Her mother is still immersed in her intense study of the floor, her face contorting into all kinds of fascinating shapes. Don's shoulders shake despite his most valiant efforts, Lynn herself is struggling against an unwilling smile, and somehow Nath remains pleasantly in control, as clearly there is nothing inherently amusing about their conversation whatsoever.

"I'll tell you another story tomorrow, children. I promise. But for now, I think you ought to sleep." Nath is the only of the adults who is coherent enough to say it.

"All _right!"_ Miri hasn't seen her nephew this excited since a travelling paladin let him hold her horse. "What about? I bet you have all _kinds_ of cool stories!"

"Well, there was that one time, and I couldn't have been much older than your aunt, but I and this one girl I'd been studying with snuck out and—"

" —made shoes for orphans!" Miri yelps, not so far gone that she can't see a disaster in the making.

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" asks Katerina, face carefully expressionless, trying and failing to keep the laughter from bubbling over in her voice. Miri, who had almost recovered from Lynn's outburst, chokes and curls up, hiding her face in her knees.

"That's so _sweet_ of you!" Alice exclaims euphorically. "Do you still do that, or is it too hard to keep up when you're adventuring?"

"Not nearly so often as I used to, sadly, though I do try to, when we have the time," Nath replies solemnly.

"W-well..." Lynn chokes, sounding faintly strangled, "You have... Miri... to help..." In the end, she can't take it—she positively _cackles_, and it's the death knell for any hope of maintaining dignity.

Nath sighs as Miri laughs helplessly, using the drow's shoulder as a pillow, and plays with the tangles in her hair. "Love," she says, "Your family is odd."

* * *

**Midnight on the fourth day of the second week of the Time of Flowers in the Year of the Worm.  
** **An inn of questionable quality in Harrowdale of the Dalelands.**

The wind is blowing when Miri awakes, whispering through the window's bars and around the inn, bringing a chill through the thin walls.

And it's _raining_.

That's not what wakes her; rain is only to be expected at this time of year, and there's a little too much wood-elf in Miri's blood for her not to feel content at early-summer storms helping to make the forests grow. If anything the rain will help to cut the already-stifling heat and dust on the road. The cool air sneaking through gaps in the boards is a _blessing._

Miri's woken because someone is screaming six inches from her head.

She jerks blindly awake, scraping her knuckles on the headboard and smashing her head into the wall behind her. Trying to blink the stars out of her eyes, she looks wildly around the dark room until she realises that they're still alone.

"Nath?" she slurs, and then shakes her head sharply as the cobwebs clear. "Oh, no… Nath, come on. Wake up, you're alright…"

Nath spasms and _screams,_ lashing out in the direction of Miri's voice but doesn't otherwise seem to hear her.

"Ow." Rubbing her nose gingerly, Miri reaches out to shake Nath's shoulder, as carefully as she can. "Nath, it's me—" She snatches her hand back when Nath's shrieking jumps several octaves. "Okay! Okay. Don't be scared, alright? I'm not going to hurt you." She glances over the terrified drow and kicks the tangled blanket off her feet; Nath immediately curls into a shaking ball, wailing, but the thrashing stops.

"...Nath?" she calls.

Miri still doesn't speak Drow or Undercommon, but she's learned to recognise words like _no_, even if she doesn't know which language they're in. Nath is repeating it in a frantic keen, nails digging into her palms, and Miri has never wanted to retroactively murder someone quite this badly.

"Hey," she says gently. "You're all right. I won't let anyone hurt you. It's just a memory, Nath, I promise. It's over. You're safe. Shhhhh."

Nath gives a heartbreaking cry and clenches her fists. Miri's fairly certain she's drawn blood this time.

"Nath," she says. "I'm right here. I'm not going to touch you, okay? But I want you to know I'm here. Can you give me your hand?" Part of her feels stupid, talking to a trancing drow as if she expects her to respond through the nightmare. But this is all she knows how to _do._

"If you don't let me know you're all right," she says weakly, "I'm going to have to start singing. I don't think either of us wants that." Nath whimpers. "I'm serious, Nath, I'll sing the one about the wizard's staff. Remember I had to spend an hour explaining the puns? Nobody wants that to happen again. And if you think I'm gonna rewrite He is Trampling the Unrighteous with Hooves of Hot Iron to be about Lolth you've got another thing coming." She places her hand carefully, palm-up, on the mattress next to Nath's head. "It'll help. Come on. You can do it."

It takes the better part of half an hour's encouragement and an on-the-fly lullaby arrangement of Johnny Has Gone for a Soldier before Nath, still whimpering feebly, suddenly snatches Miri's hand to her chest, squeezing it like a lifeline. Miri chokes on a pained yelp and is momentarily certain that she'll never regain enough feeling in that hand to play more than three chords, but manages to find a position that reestablishes _some_ blood flow to her kidnapped limb and settles back in with her interrupted midnight storytelling routine.

"So anyway," she says softly, brushing Nath's hair out of her eyes and watching carefully for any signs of distress. "I was just finishing that song about the hedgehog and this uptight Crusader in the back comes stomping up to me, calls me a godless heathen. I tell him he forgot the bastard half-breed part." Nath shudders and gives a quiet moan; all of Miri's instincts tell her to squeeze her hand, but she knows better now than to make Nath feel restrained at all. She risks rubbing a thumb once over the back of her hand. "So, bit of advice, Crusaders don't like it when you agree with them, apparently. To make a long story short he pushed me off my chair, and I _might_ have kicked him in the balls on the way down, and somehow three Paladins, a Cleric with really good aim and a bobcat got involved… See, this is why I need you around to protect me." She pauses. "Nath?"

For several long moments the drow doesn't move; when she does it's barely a twitch, lifting her head just enough that Miri can see her eyes. Mutely, Nath relaxes her grip and cuddles closer to her. Miri, moving very, very slowly, puts her newly-freed arm around her. Nath doesn't move, but she gives a tiny squeaking sound that isn't a protest.

"I'm sorry," Miri whispers, because she's sure she did _something_ horribly wrong.

Nath shakes her head as best she can with it buried in Miri's shoulder. She whispers something in an Underdark language Miri doesn't speak, looks up briefly and then nuzzles up against her side.

There's a sudden gust of wind and rain patters loudly against the wall; Miri pulls the blanket back up over Nath and settles down properly, tucking the exhausted drow against her chest. The sun will be up in a few hours.

* * *

**Evening on the eighth day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
****The Thatcher House in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

Miri gives a contented sigh, rolling onto her side to smile lazily at Nath.

"You did good," she says. "I _told_ you they'd like you."

Nath blinks in mild surprise, folding her robe carefully and placing it on top of her pack before sitting down on the edge of the straw-packed mattress; Carter and Alice had been temporarily kicked out of their loft so their aunt would have a place to sleep. "Yes," she says slowly. "The children aren't afraid of me. And your brother seems to approve more than he did."

Miri grins. "I knew you'd win them over. Don's harmless, really, just… human." Impulsive and happy, she pushes herself up on one arm and kisses Nath solidly on the cheek, pulling the little drow down on top of her. Nath gives an absent smile, but still looks thoughtful. "What's wrong?"

"Your mother didn't attempt to poison me," Nath says. "Does she not consider me a proper suitor?"

Miri has absolutely no way to respond to this.

"...Were you expecting my mother to poison you?" she asks slowly.

"Well, of course." Nath sounds surprised.

"Is _that _why you wanted to cook?"

"Is that not a human custom?"

"Well." Miri blinks rapidly. "Yes, sometimes. But that's just being polite, not a… a safeguard to make it harder for your partner's family to _poison_ you." Nath looks almost disappointed. "Why would my mother not… consider you a proper suitor?" The words sound fairly ridiculous, but for Nath's sake she keeps a straight face. "I think in her mind we're already married with three kids."

"But we haven't been…" Nath makes a face and looks away, almost shy. "And we're from different classes. And races," she adds at the glare Miri gives her. "I thought maybe you didn't… that I wasn't a real prospect in your eyes."

"I'm going to pretend you said _alignments,"_ Miri informs her as sternly as possible. "And you know why we haven't."

Nath frowns slightly as she traces her fingers along the edge of Miri's ear. "I know why you _think_ we can't. I don't understand why."

Miri takes a moment to try to put her reticence into words, without insulting Nath's intelligence. "I just," she says slowly, "I can't have sex with someone if I know they can't say no."

Nath gives her a strange look. "I can say no," she says slowly.

Miri moans and pulls a pillow over her face. "If I haven't _ordered you not to_," she mumbles through a mouthful of linen. Nath curiously pulls the pillow away, and Miri says, "That's what I mean, Nath. You would just… Nath, you don't understand the kind of power you _should_ have and it's too easy for me to accidentally take it away from you, all right? You don't have enough experience with… with healthy relationships."

"I understand the kind of power I should have."

"You put yourself under a binding spell, Nath."

"Are you _still_ angry about that? You dissolved it ages ago! Can't we just move on?" Nath cries.

Miri chokes on air. "_What?_"

Nath shakes her head impatiently. "You _always_ controlled the binding spell," she says, defensive. "You decided you didn't want it and it dissolved."

"You could have _told me!_" Miri hisses in a whisper, suddenly aware that her brother and mother are sleeping not terribly far away.

For the first time Nath looks abashed. "I thought you knew." Miri can't help smiling, after a few seconds; it's just… very Nath.

"So we don't have to fight," Nath prompts. "You don't control me anymore so you don't have to be upset."

Miri squeezes her eyes shut and sighs. Finally holding out one arm so she can hold Nath against her side, she kisses her lightly and rests her head against Nath's forehead. "It wasn't just the binding spell. But I'm glad _that's_ gone, at least."

Nath stirs, and Miri can almost _feel _her frustration. "I'm _not_ too young," she says firmly. "If I was still at home half the people my age would be married."

Miri perks up slightly at the phrasing. "Not you?"

"No." Nath's voice is suddenly much more guarded. "I'm not…" After a slight hesitation, she changes tracks and finishes with a slight smirk, "There's no one who could survive dinner with my mother. But I'd be _old_ enough. I'm seventy-six, Miria."

"Happy birthday," Miri mutters, trying to find a way to explain why she can't bring herself to touch Nath the way she wants to. "And I know you're not too young. It's not that."

It _isn't_, not really, not after that first bout of irrational panic; there's something deeply disturbing about the idea of placing more value on arbitrary human estimations of when it's acceptable for them to have sex with members of another race than on the opinions of the race in question. If Nath says she's a legal adult in drow society, Miri is inclined to believe her. But rationalising what would so obviously be taking advantage of an _incredibly _vulnerable young woman is something very different. Recent shifts in alignment notwithstanding, Miri has _morals._

"Five months ago," she says carefully, "You still thought I was going to abandon you because I wasn't your first. You put a binding spell on yourself because you were so convinced that one of us had to be controlled by the other and you didn't want to hurt _me._ I used a _ridiculously_ violating spell on you—"

"You apologised," Nath points out quietly.

Miri thinks about it for a moment. "You made me," she says slowly. "I think that was the first time I ever saw you stand up for yourself."

Nath is very still for several long heartbeats before she says softly, "You don't get angry when I do. And you listen."

Miri has to swallow a sudden lump in her throat. "Don't ever accept anything else. Especially not from me."

She thinks that Nath probably doesn't know how to respond to that, really. The drow turns her head and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Miri's ear.

Miri swallows again for an entirely different reason. She would write it off as Nath trying to kiss her temple and missing, except that she repeats it once, and then twice; slowly, utterly relaxed. She's about to say something—she _is_, really, even if she doesn't know _what_ she's going to say—when Nath's tongue runs lightly over the point of her ear and she makes an embarrassing whimpering noise.

Nath pauses, shifting to get a better angle. Miri's expecting her tongue, this time, and manages not to whimper, but then Nath nips at the shell of her ear and Miri _keens_.

Nath leans over to kiss her, grinning when Miri's lips part to meet her, and replaces her tongue with fingers, rubbing the tip of Miri's ear between them.

Expecting her not to make a sound at _that_ would just be completely unfair.

Nath makes a contented humming sound in the back of her throat and seems like she's going to move again; Miri tightens the arm she still has around her waist in protest, and Nath does that blushing-without-any-visible-change thing and buries her head in Miri's shoulder to conceal her grin.

* * *

**Afternoon on the tenth day of the third week of Summertide in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Market in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

Alice comes alive at the market, flitting from stall to stall and holding adorably mature conversations with the owners.

"Ms. Hudson!" she cries excitedly, pulling an elderly woman at a stall selling jewelery into a hug. "Ms. Hudson, my Aunt Miri is here!"

"Oh, my," says Ms. Hudson, peering nearsightedly at the girl. "Little Miria?"

Alice nods happily.

"Well, come on, Miria, aren't you going to give your godmother a hug?" Ms. Hudson looks simultaneously stern and ecstatic.

Miri grins widely. "Hi, Aunt Ellen. I missed you."

"And whose fault is that, young lady? You'd not miss me if you ever came to visit."

"Well, I've been busy," Miri tries to explain while being crushed in a patented Anderson hug. "Travelling, I joined an adventuring party a while back—Lynn, did you see where Nath went?—I only stopped by to _Aunt Ellen, you're crushing my ribs_—!"

Ms. Hudson laughs as she releases her goddaughter. "So what're you doing in—Oh, one minute, dear..." She turns to the nervous-looking young man who's just approached her stall, greeting him with a knowing look. "Come back for that necklace, have you, Jonas?" she asks with a smile. He nods shyly, tugging at his dark hair distractedly and stammering over some explanation about a girl named Shirley who loves adventure stories and nearly fumbling his purse as Ms. Hudson smirks knowingly, pulling a simple silvery chain from a shelf under the stall. A foreign-looking coin, weathered enough to look terribly exciting, hangs at the end. "Knew he'd be back for it in time for Shieldmeet," she says as the young man hurries off to find his girl. "He's been head-over-heels for her since Greengrass."

Miri smiles and is about to say something when Lynn makes a timely and relieving appearance with Nath and Alice in tow. Nath looks none too happy about this, but given a choice between a grumpy Nath and one that has been murdered to death repeatedly by pitchforks, Miri will put up with the complaining.

"They were making tea out of _flower petals_." She sounds horribly offended. "Flower petals!"

Ms. Hudson transfers her attention to the newcomer, leaning in and squinting. (She had been refusing for ten years to invest in a pair of spectacles, on the grounds that they would make her look old.) "And who's this, then?" she asks, warmly and in much the way she would talk to a shy child, and Miri tries to put herself between Nath and her godmother before a lot of blood is shed in a very short period of time.

"Nath," she says placatingly, "this is my godmother. Aunt Ellen, this is Nath, she's older than she looks, please don't—"

"Aunt Miri has a _girlfriend!_" Alice pipes gleefully, bouncing on her toes.

"Oh!" says Ms. Hudson. "Well that practically makes you family, dear. Now, come give me a hug."

Amazingly, Nath does, if unhappily. Miri makes a note to thank her somehow later on, once she's made sure Ms. Hudson doesn't die from a sudden and inexplicable illness.

"Hi, Mr and Mrs Chesterton!" Alice calls, waving to the pair on the other side of the street. They'd been Miri's teachers when she was Alice's age, and don't look to have aged a day. She waves as well, and Mrs Chesterton (she'd given Miri permission to call her Barbara, after she was done with school, but it had just felt _wrong_) smiles and waves back. Mr Chesterton is in the midst of haggling price, and doesn't notice the girls. When Miri turns her attention back to the group, it's to find herself being berated by her godmother.

"Oh my, you're a stick, girl. Miria, don't you _feed_ her?" asks Ms. Hudson, horrified.

"Plenty," says Lynn. "Miri's quite vocal about it."

Miri is suddenly unspeakably grateful both that Aunt Ellen is too blind to notice her face turning bright red and that Nath has never learned Common.

"I don't get it," Alice complains.

"Good," says Kat. Miri takes the opportunity to ram an elbow into her sister-in-law's ribs. "Girls, play nicely. It was good to see you, Ellen; we'll make sure we pass by on our way back, won't we, Miria?"

Miri rolls her eyes good-naturedly and hugs her godmother one more time. "See you later, Aunt Ellen," she says, reaching automatically for Nath. "We need to get some shopping done." She looks down to find Alice fairly quivering with excitement.

"Well?" she says with a grin. "Lead the way."

* * *

**Afternoon on the third day of the first week of Highsun in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Thatcher House in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

Looking in the dictionary under _chaos,_ one would not, in fact, find the Thatcher kitchen on their favorite aunt's last day home. One would find the definition of the word _chaos_. However, the Thatcher home on the afternoon of Miri's departure would be a suitable alternative.

"Don't pack loaves of bread, Alice!" Miri calls over the general din for the third time. "It takes up too much room, gets squished, and it always goes stale before you get a chance to finish it!"

"There are five of you," Lynn reminds her, taking the paper-wrapped packet of food from Alice and setting about repacking it to be more compact. "Finishing a loaf before it goes stale shouldn't be a problem."

Miri is forced to acknowledge the fact. "Okay, okay. Alice, pack _one."_

Lynn promptly sets aside two loaves of admittedly mouthwatering bread. "If it _does_ go stale," she offers, "I know a great recipe for stale bread. With milk and some eggs—"

"Lynn? Milk? Eggs?"

"Right. Sorry. Don, honey, take this—"

Don turns away from where he'd been discussing things of manly importance with Rennic (who looks faintly alarmed at the noise and confusion) to take the tightly-wrapped bundle and pass it along to Katerina.

"Alice!" Lynn calls. "Run outside and see if the laundry's dried yet!"

"I can—where's Nath?" Miri demands, suddenly noticing a distinct lack of drow in the crowded kitchen.

"Under the table," Carter calls from across the room. Without missing a beat, he goes back to his earnest conversation with Allerod, who has yet to get a chance to answer any of the boy's rapid-fire questions.

"Oh, no... Nath, are you okay under—_mother, I can pack my own clothes!"_

"Of course you can," Kat replies easily, continuing in her systematic pulling-apart of her eldest child's pack. She lays the contents out on the kitchen table. "Under everything else, stacked on top of each other so that you'd have to unpack absolutely everything to get to a single item, which you won't, so the moment you need a new tunic you'll just pull it out and bury everything in one big tangle. When was the last time you saw..." She reaches in and rummages briefly in the very bottom of the pack. "..._this?_"

Miri scowls, snatching the flimsy, battered box of spare lute strings from her mother before realising what it is.

"...Huh. I forgot I had these."

"I thought as much," Katerina says briskly, holding out her hand for the box.

Miri hands it over, ears reddening slightly at Don and Rennic's laughter. Muttering darkly to herself, she slumps into the empty chair at the opposite end of the table, turning it pointedly to the side. Leaning forward, she peers under the edge of the long tablecloth.

"Nath?"

The drow gives a little wave, cuddled up against the far table leg.

"You okay down here?"

She nods.

"Not scared?"

A brief pause while she considers it, then shakes her head.

"Do you want to come out?"

A much more emphatic head-shake.

"Well, if you want to come out later, you can just slip up next to my mom, all right? She'll take care of you. Don't stay down here if you don't want to."

Nath nods almost imperceptibly and somewhat distractedly, so that it's almost an aside, and pulls up her knees to a nearly foetal seating, her long robes pooling on the wooden floor. Miri takes several long moments to study her.

"...Nath?" she says gently. "Do you want me to stay down here with you?"

The drow noiselessly snaps three fingers, and turns her hand quickly: _No; I'm fine._

Miri looks skeptical, but accepts this. "All right. Tell me if you need anything." She smiles reassuringly. "This'll all be over soon, don't worry. We'll be back to sleeping on the ground and listening to Kadek snore all night before you know it."

This manages to pull a reluctant smile out of the little drow, and Miri grins and tips her a wink before sitting up, letting the tablecloth fall back into place.

"Is she okay?" Carter asks anxiously. "She can go up to my room if she's scared."

Miri, the now-familiar rush of warmth for her nephew intensifying somewhat, nods. "She's fine," she says, ruffling his hair.

"She likes our table," Carter confides in Allerod. "It's an awfully nice table, but I don't know why she likes it _that_ much."

Al seems unsure how to respond to this. "Well," he says, "I'm... glad she has an appreciation for fine furniture." Carter takes a breath, and seeing this danger sign Allerod hurries to cut him off. "So you're going to be an adventurer! Your aunt tells me you want to be just like Drizzt Do'Urden, is that right?"

Carter's face falls slightly. He looks far more serious than usual, muttering something under his breath. The clatter of the busy kitchen drowns him out.

"What's that?" Al asks kindly.

Carter takes a deep breath. "I don't know if I want to be like him anymore," he says, looking almost frightened at the confession.

"Why not?" Rennic, overhearing their conversation, looks over. "Miri said you were crazy about him."

Don looks surprised as well. "I thought Drizzt Do'Urden was your hero!"

Carter wraps his arms around himself, mumbling incoherently under the scrutiny of his father and the imposing strangers. Al prods him gently again, but the boy can't seem to say any more.

"Hey," Miri says after a short pause, exchanging a meaningful look with her brother. "Carter, can you help me get the rest of that laundry in? It'll be dry by now and we need to get moving."

Carter, about melting with relief at being rescued from the conversation, agrees almost before she can finish her question, and all but sprints out of the room.

* * *

**Dusk on the third day of the first week of Highsun in the Year of the Worm.  
** **The Thatcher House in Freedale of the Dalelands.**

"Perfect. Carter, hand me that last one, we'll take these to your grandma."

Carter looks scandalised. "I'm not touching _those!"_ he exclaims. "Those are _underpants!_"

Unable to contain a laugh at the _normalcy_ of the complaint, one final bubble of a nice, regular life before the road, Miri flicks the garment off the line. "What," she teases, "our brave adventurer is afraid of cooties?"

Carter puffs up defiantly. "I'm not afraid of anything!"

Miri snaps the offending article at him and he leaps back. Grinning, she drops it into the basket with the rest and picks up the load. "I bet you're scared of _girls_," she singsongs.

"Am not!"

"I bet you are."

Carter glowers. "Am _not!_" he insists.

"Fine," Miri smiles. "Help me carry this inside?"

Still muttering under his breath about how he is _so_ not scared of girls, Carter complies, picking up one side of the basket while Miri takes the other. As they manhandle their load through the back door, Carter heads for the sounds of laughter and overlapping conversations leaking out from the kitchen, looking back in surprise when Miri stops and sets down her end of the basket.

"What's wrong?" he asks worriedly. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she assures him quickly. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

He blinks. "Sure."

Miri looks around, sitting herself in the armchair she'd occupied the night before. Carter, confused but trusting, sits cross-legged on the rug in front of her. Marvin scampers across the floor and up his sleeve, and he pets her head absently.

"Carter," Miri says, and Carter's attention is gained immediately at the seriousness in her voice. He looks scared, actually, and that won't do, so she backtracks slightly, forcing lightness into her tone. "You haven't got your sword anymore," she comments, nodding at his empty hip; the crude wooden sword he'd loved so dearly hasn't made an appearance in several days.

Carter shifts awkwardly. "It was silly," he says, self-conscious. "Just for playing."

Miri looks at him carefully for several moments before reaching into an inside pocket and carefully drawing out a leather packet. "This isn't for playing," she says. "But I think maybe you're old enough for it." She unfolds the packet. The blade of an elf-made knife gleams in the daylight, the deadly sharp serrated edge proclaiming it to be a _grown-up's_ weapon.

Carter takes the knife slowly, awestruck. He turns it this way and that, watching light flash off the blade.

"Look, Marvin," he breathes. "It's a real elven knife." Marvin steps daintily down his arm and sniffs at the knife; squeaking her approval, she springs back up to her preferred shoulder.

"Well, you're going to be an adventurer," Miri says quietly.

Carter looks up at her in wonder, as if until this moment he'd never realised that his dream was something he could _really_ do. "And help people," he says shakily. He swallows and tightens his grip on the hilt, taking a deep breath. "Help _everyone_," he says firmly. "Not just humans. People_._"

Miri takes a moment to get a good look at her nephew; he _looks_ like he hasn't changed since he came spilling into the kitchen a week ago babbling about fish, but where she once saw an endearing boy she's now beginning to see a fine young man.

"I know you will," she says, more to herself than her nephew. She gives him a few more moments to examine his new weapon before standing up, businesslike again. "Here," she offers, holding out a plain but well-made belt and sheath for the knife. Still slightly dazed, Carter buckles the leather strap around his waist and carefully slides the knife home, seeming almost to wake up from a dream with the action.

Miri smiles and ruffles his hair affectionately.

"Come on," she tells him. "Let's get this laundry to your grandma, and then you can see if Nath's hungry."

* * *

**Morning on the sixth day of the second week of the Rotting in the Year of the Harp.  
** **A Disreputable Inn in Proskur of the Dragon Coast.**

When Miri awakes, it is to an awkwardly still drow whom she has apparently been using as a pillow.

"...morning," she offers nervously.

Nath stares at her for a moment, and then rejoins: "Good morning."

Miri looks hurt, disappointed in the almost cool greeting, until she realises how thoroughly she's snuggled up to the drow. She coughs self-consciously, moving over to give Nath a bit of space and a slightly blushing half-grin.

Nath, now able to move, is dressing quickly, painstakingly avoiding turning towards the wall with the window. As she's shrugging on her robe, she turns to Miri, still lying in bed (she was never much of a morning person), and says, "I'll meet you downstairs; alright?"

"Mmm. Five more minutes?"

The drow raises an eyebrow. "I won't have left."

Miri squints at the window and is forced to acknowledge the fact that the sun has most definitely risen. Heaving a sigh, she stretches and groans, sitting up reluctantly. "All right," she yawns. "I'm up, I'm up..."

Nath has already left the room.

Rubbing tired eyes, Miri manages after a few trial-and-error sessions to pull her clothes onto the areas they were originally intended to cover. She grabs her lute from where it's propped next to the door by sheer force of habit; no matter how surprisingly generous morning crowds could be, she won't be playing _anything_ until she's had enough sleep to tell chords apart. Or to tell a string from a tin of wood polish, for that matter.

"—slept fine, thank you, Nathcyrl. And you?"

Nath looks up from... something that is _probably _edible as Miri pauses at the foot of the stairs. "Oh. It's _you_."

Miri stiffens indignantly for a moment; _she_ hadn't been the one who suggested breakfast. The blonde demihuman beside Nath chides, "Don't bite Rennic's head off, Nathcyrl."

Nath _hmph_s, glaring down at her plate before stabbing whatever's on it with a great deal of prejudice. It's surprisingly adorable.

Someone clears their throat behind Miri, and she glances over her shoulder as she steps out of the way. A rough-looking rogue—likely a Rogue as well from the look of him—shoulders past her with a brief look that's dismissive and appreciative in the same moment. One of _those,_ then. Miri would consider throwing something at him if she didn't get ten like him a night in every tavern.

"What's for breakfast?" he asks Nath's companion.

"A death touch, I should hope," Nath mutters, just loud enough to carry to Miri.

Rennic snorts carelessly, leaning over and spearing one of Nath's mysterious sausages on a belt knife. Nath spares him a glare that only just manages not to set him on fire before turning back to an increasingly-awkward Miri with a warm smile. "Sit down, dear," she says pleasantly, stretching one leg under the table in an attempt to push the empty chair out for her. The Rogue—Rennic, Miri thinks—rolls his eyes and pulls it the rest of the way out.

She edges onto the chair, and the blonde man cheerfully hands her a small bar of dried fruit. "Hello," he says kindly. "I'm Allerod Fartracker. Neutral Good. You are?"

"Um… Miri. Miria Scuttleleaf," she says, taking a difficult bite out of the fruit bar. It's difficult to chew, but sweet with honey and incredibly filling. "Same. This is good!"

Allerod beams. "I make them when I have the time and the resources. They're very dependable rations on the road."

"I can imagine," Miri mumbles, swallowing with difficulty. There's not a lot she wouldn't give to be able to have that kind of food on the road. It beats stale bread for breakfast.

Nath shakes her head and cuts a piece of her sausage in half. "These aren't mine," she says with a certain amount of dissatisfaction. "Mine are lumpier and human sausages are too… uniform. They're all one shade. That's sausages humans make," she clarifies. "Not _human sausages. _But they're not _awful._"

Miri accepts the sausage, which is actually extremely good despite Nath's reservations.

"Nathcyrl," says Allerod patiently. "Sausages aren't supposed to have green bits in them."

Nath gives him a confused look.

"Never mind," he says.

The others spend the rest of a short breakfast discussing routes and stopping points along the way to wherever it is adventuring parties go when there's no clear despotic overlord attempting to take over the world. Miri quietly accepts Allerod's periodic offers of food, which give her the best breakfast she's had in the better part of a year, but doesn't interject except to answer Nath's polite inquiries with assurances that she's perfectly comfortable.

It occurs to her that their party doesn't have a Bard (or, for that matter, a Cleric or Fighter; she's never seen a three-member adventuring party before, and she's seen a lot of adventuring parties); but then she's not exactly the kind of Bard adventuring parties _want_. She knows enough to use cantrips, the kind of spells Mages don't even consider proper magic, as long as they're written down, but the ability to occasionally make colourful glowing lights isn't usually prized in the middle of battle. Neither, as a general rule, is a comprehensive knowledge of every cheerfully bawdy tavern song ever penned.

It comes as something of a shock, therefore, when Rennic stands and jerks his head in her direction. "And her? Nathcyrl, you bringing her along or not?"

Nath replies with great dignity, "I would certainly welcome her if she wanted to join us."

Allerod holds his hands out in invitation. "I'm hardly going to argue. Rennic and Nathcyrl don't like the fruit bars." He smiles. "Would you like to come along?"

It's a stupid, impulsive decision, but then, she _is_ a Bard.

"If I can run upstairs and grab my things," she says, "I actually think I would."


End file.
